Julian  the    Apostate 


By 

D.  S.  Mereshovski 


Translated  by 
Charles  Johnston 


Henry    Altemus 
Philadelphia 


COPYRIGHT  1899,  BY  HENRY  ALTEMT 


INTRODUCTION. 

The  present  trend  toward  romantic  fiction  is 
the  sign  of  a  healthy  reaction  in  literature.  It 
sounds  the  death  of  the  pseudo-realism  so  ram- 
pantly self-assertive  during  the  last  decade. 

That  realism  divided  itself  into  two  camps.  The 
pornographists,  like  Zola,  engaged  in  accurate  but 
purely  pathological  studies  of  the  hog  that  lies 
couchant  in  all  humanity,  and  even  after  twenty 
centuries  of  Christianity  is  still  rampant  in  many 
of  us.  They  gave  us  a  portion  of  the  truth.  Now 
a  portion  can  never  be  real.  On  the  other  side 
were  the  photographers,  like  Henry  James,  and 
W.  D.  Howells,  who  used  their  flashlights  only 
upon  man  and  woman  in  full-dress,  smiling  pleas- 
antly and  with  their  company-manners  assumed 
for  the  occasion.  Of  the  infinite  capacities  of  the 
human  heart  for  good  or  for  evil  these  writers 
gave  us  but  the  vaguest  intimations.  Henc.e  they, 
also,  saw  but  a  portion  of  the  truth.  Hence  they, 
also,  were  essentially  unreal. 

But  the  advent  of  the  new  school  of  Stanley 
Weyman,  Anthony  Hope,  and,  greatest  of  all, 
Sienkiewicz  and  Mereshkovski,  marks  a  return  to 
the  ever-new  and  ever-old,  the  historical  and 
romantic  fiction  which  pleased  our  forefathers  and 
mayhap  will  continue  to  please  our  descendants 
to  the  end.  These  novelists  dare  to  take  large 
canvases  and  paint  upon  them  stirring  and  splen- 
did scenes,  lit  up  by  human  passion.  They  do  not 
3 


2039640 


4  Introduction. 

represent  man  as  all  dirt,  nor  as  a  deity,  but  render 
him  in  his  aspect  as  he  lived  and  lives: 

Half  dirt,  half  deity,  un£t  alike 
To  soar  or  sink. 

They  reproduce  for  us  the  actual  heroes  or  vil- 
lains, in  high  places  and  in  low,  who  have  stormed 
across  the  past  of  the  world,  and  they  kin  them 
to  the  present  by  showing  us  more  or  less  directly 
how  they  were  actuated  by  the  same  mixture  of 
noble  and  ignoble  motives  that  rule  the  human 
breast  of  to-day. 

I  have  mentioned  Mereshkovski  in  the  same 
breath  with  Sienkiewicz  because  he  seems  to  me 
equal  in  the  power  of  reproducing  the  pagan  or 
semi-pagan  past  in  its  gorgeous  decadence.  His 
portrait  of  Julian  the  Apostate  is  well  worthy  a 
place  besides  the  portrait  of  Nero  in  Quo  Vadis, 
and  I  am  not  sure  that  it  was  not  the  more  diffi- 
cult task.  Julian,  a  much  more  complex  char- 
acter than  Nero,  required  infinitely  more  delicacy 
in  the  high-lights  and  in  the  shading,  more  chiar- 
oscuro, a  finer  technique,  in  short,  on  the  part  of 
the  artist.  Yet  Julian  in  the  one  book  stands  out 
as  boldly  and  intelligibly  as  Nero  in  the  other. 

Julian  the  Apostate,  in  fact,  is  one  of  the  most 
interesting  characters  in  history.  Notwithstand- 
ing his  early  death  and  the  shortness  of  his  reign 
— it  is  with  a  start  we  remind  ourselves  that  he 
Mras  barely  thirty  when  he  died  and  had  been 
Emperor  for  only  a  year  and  a  half — he  made  a 
mighty  impress  upon  his  time.  Historians  may 
call  him  a  reactionary  engaged  in  a  hopeless  strug- 
gle against  destiny,  sociologists  an  atavist,  strug- 


Introduction.  5 

gling  for  the  restoration,  of  the  extinct  civilization 
of  which  he  was  a  laggard  type,  and  humorists  a 
Mrs.  Partington  combating  the  roaring  onslaught 
of  the  advancing  ocean  with  mop  and  broom. 
They  would  all  be  right.  Yet  the  more  hopeless 
the  task  he  set  himself,  the  more  extraordinary 
was  the  measure  of  Julian's  achievement.  During 
the  eighteen  months  when  he  held  the  mastery  of 
the  world  it  almost  seemed  that  he  would  turn 
backward  the  wheels  of  progress,  abolish  the  pres- 
ent, and  project  the  past  into  the  future.  But  he 
was  struck  down  in  battle  in  the  very  heyday  of 
his  power.  The  dying  cry  which  has  been  put 
into  his  mouth,  "Thou  hast  conquered,  Galilean!" 
may  be  only  a  poetical  figment,  nevertheless  it  is 
an  embodiment  of  historical  truth. 

With  the  death  of  him  who  had  been  shudder- 
ingly  styled  Antichrist  by  the  followers  of  the 
new  faith,  the  victory  of  Christ  and  of  that  new 
faith  was  made  complete. 

Mereshkovski  has  presented  a  brilliant  and 
effective  picture  not  only  of  this  central  figure 
but  of  the  epoch  in  which  he  lived,  when  Catho- 
lics and  Arians  were  but  the  largest  factions  in  a 
host  of  contending  sects  which  made  up  an  inhar- 
monious camp  of  Christians.  He  has  reproduced 
the  ever-changing  moods  of  the  period,  its  habits, 
its  manners,  its  passions,  its  entire  life,  in  short, 
with  the  rarest  fidelity  to  history  and  to  human 
nature. 

Basing  his  work  upon  the  eternal  verities  he  is 
far  more  real  than  the  self-styled  "realists." 

WILLIAM  SHEPARD. 


JULIAN  THE  APOSTATE. 

PART  I. 


CHAPTER  I. 
SCUDILO  AND  THE  MAGICIAN. 

Twenty  stadia  from  Cesarea  of  Cappadocia,  on 
the  wooded  spurs  of  the  Argian  hills,  beside  the 
great  Koman  road,  was  a  spring  of  warm,  healing 
water.  A  block  of  stone,  with  coarsely-graven 
sculptures  of  human  figures  and  Greek  inscrip- 
tions, bore  witness  that  the  spring  had  once  been 
consecrated  to  the  brothers  Castor  and  Pollux,  the 
Dioscuri.  The  images  of  the  heathen  gods  re- 
maining uninjured  were  held  to  be  the  images  of 
the  Christian  saints  Cosmas  and  Damian. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  road,  opposite  the  holy 
spring,  was  built  a  low  tavern,  covered  with  straw 
thatch,  with  a  foully-kept  courtyard  for  cattle, 
and  a  shed  for  fowl  and  geese.  In  the  tavern 
could  be  had  goat's  cheese,  grey  bread,  honey, 
olive  oil  and  the  sour  local  wine.  The  tavern  was 
kept  by  the  crafty  Armenian,  Syrophenix. 

A  partition  divided  the  tavern  in  two  parts, — 
one  for  the  common  folk, — the  other  for  more 
esteemed  guests.  Under  the  ceiling,  blackened  by 
acrid  smoke,  hung  hams  and  bunches  of  scented 


8  Julian  the  Apostate. 

mountain  herbs,  for  Fortunata,  the  wife  of  Syro- 
phenix, was  a  notable  housewife. 

The  tavern  had  an  evil  name.  Honest  people 
did  not  remain  there  after  nightfall.  There  were 
rumors  of  dark  deeds  done  under  that  low  roof. 
But  Syrophenix  was  cunning,  and  could  give  a 
bribe  when  need  was,  and  so  came  forth  dry  out  of 
the  water. 

The  partition  consisted  of  two  slender  columns 
and  of  an  old  faded  cloak  of  Fortunata's,  instead 
of  a  curtain.  The  columns,  with  their  naive  pre- 
tension to  Doric  style,  were  the  one  elegance  of 
the  inn  and  the  pride  of  Syrophenix.  Once 
gilded,  they  were  long  since  cracked  and  peeled. 
The  once  bright  purple,  but  now  dusty  blue  cloak, 
was  variegated  with  innumerable  stains,  the  traces 
of  all  the  breakfasts,  suppers  and  dinners  that 
recalled  to  the  beneficent  Fortunata  ten  years  of 
her  family  life. 

In  the  clean  half,  shut  off  by  the  curtain,  on 
the  narrow  couch,  worn  through  in  many  places, 
beside  a  table  with  a  pewter  mixing-bowl  and 
wine-cups  on  it,  reclined  Marcus  Scudilo,  the 
Roman  military  tribune  of  the  sixteenth  legion, 
and  the  ninth  cohort.  Marcus  was  a  provincial 
dandy,  with  one  of  those  faces  at  sight  of  which 
forward  slave-girls  and  the  cheap  heterae  of  the 
suburbs  cried  out  in  simple-hearted  ecstacy: 
"What  a  handsome  man!"  At  his  feet,  on  the 
same  couch,  in  an  humble  and  uncomfortable  atti- 
tude, sat  a  stout  man,  red-faced  and  short  of 
breath,  with  a  bald  head  and  thin,  grey  hair 
drawn  forward  from  the  nape  of  his  neck  to  the 
temples, — Publius  Aquila,  the  centurion  of  the 
eighth  hundred.  At  a  little  distance  off,  on  the 


Scudilo  and  the  Magician.  9 

floor,  twelve  Eoman  legionaries  were  playing  at 
knuckle-bones. 

"I  swear  by  Hercules!"  exclaimed  Scudilo,  "I 
would  rather  be  the  last  man  in  Constantinople 
than  the  first  in  a  mouse-hole.  Is  this  life,  Pub- 
lius?  Come,  answer  with  a  clear  conscience, — is 
this  life?  You  know  that  nothing  is  coming  but 
drill  and  the  barracks  and  the  camp.  You  rot  in 
a  foul  marsh  and  do  not  see  the  light!" 

"Yes,  you  may  well  say  it,  life  here  is  not  gay," 
assented  Publius,  "but  then  how  peaceful." 

The  old  centurion  was  watching  the  knuckle- 
bones. The  game  was  an  absorbing  one.  Pretend- 
ing to  listen  to  his  superior's  gossip,  and  nodding 
to  his  words,  he  watched  the  game  under  his 
brows,  and  thought:  "If  the  red-headed  fellow 
throws  cleverly  he  is  likely  to  win."  Then,  for 
the  sake  of  appearances,  Publius  asked  the  tribune, 
as  though  the  question  interested  him: 

"Why  do  you  say  the  prefect  Helvidius  is  angry 
with  you?"  ' 

"Because  of  a'  woman,  my  friend,  all  because  of 
a  woman." 

And  Marcus  Scudilo,  in  a  fit  of  talkative  confi- 
dence, with  a  great  show  of  mystery,  speaking  in 
the  centurion's  ear,  related  that  the  prefect,  "that 
old  he-goat  Helvidius,"  was  jealous  of  him  on 
account  of  a  newly-arrived  hetera,  a  Lilybasum. 
And  Scudilo  wished  to  win  back  the  prefect's 
favor  at  once  by  some  considerable  service.  Not 
far  from  Cesarea,  in  the  fortress  of  Macellum, 
Julian  and  Gallus  were  confined, — the  cousins  of 
the  ruling  Emperor  Constantius,  and  nephews  of 
Constantine  the  Great,  the  last  scions  of  the  ill- 
-starred  house  of  Flavius.  On  ascending  the  throne, 


10  Julian  the  Apostate. 

through  fear  of  rivals,  Constantius  had  assassi- 
nated his  uncle,  the  father  of  Julian  and  Gallus, 
Constantino's  brother,  Julius  Constantius.  Many 
other  victims  fell.  But  Julian  and  Gallus  they 
spared,  sending  them  to  the  lonely  fortress  of 
Macellum.  The  prefect  in  Cesarea  was  in  serious 
difficulties.  Knowing  that  the  new  emperor  hated 
the  two  boys,  who  reminded  him  of  his  crime, 
Helvidius  wished  and  yet  feared  to  divine  the 
emperor's  will.  Julian  and  Gallus  lived  in  per- 
petual dread  of  death.  The  crafty  tribune,  Scu- 
dilo,  dreaming  of  the  possibility  of  a  career  at 
court,  understood  from  the  hints  of  his  superior 
that  he  could  not  decide  to  take  the  responsibility 
on  himself,  and  was  frightened  by  the  rumors  of 
the  escape  of  Constantino's  heirs.  Then  Marcus 
Scudilo  decided  to  go  with  a  company  of  legion- 
aries to  Macellum,  to  arrest  the  prisoners  at  his 
own  risk,  and  to  bring  them  to  Cesarea,  holding 
that  he  had  nothing  to  fear  from  two  youths, 
mere  abandoned  orphans,  detested  by  the  em- 
peror. By  this  daring  deed,  he  hoped  to  regain 
the  favor  of  the  prefect  Helvidius,  which  he  had 
lost  for  the  golden-haired  Lilybasum. 

But  he  only  told  Publius  a  part  of  his  plan,  and 
this  with  the  utmost  caution. 

"What  do  you  wish  to  do,  Scudilo?  Have 
orders  come  from  Constantinople?" 

"No,  there  are  no  orders.  No  one  knows  any- 
thing for  certain.  But  rumors,  you  see,  .a  thou- 
sand different  rumors,  and  expectations,  and 
hints,  and  insinuations,  and  threats,  and  secrets, — 
oh,  no  end  of  secrets!  For  things  like  that  you 
get  thanks.  Any  fool  can  carry  out  an  order.  But 
you  must  guess  the  ruler's  will  without  words! 


Si-udilo  and  the  Magician.  11 

Let  us  see,  let  us  try,  let  us  look  out.  Most  of  all, 
courage,  courage,  signing  yourself  with  the  sign 
of  the  cross!  I  depend  on  you,  Publius.  May- 
hap, we  shall  both  soon  be  drinking  at  court,  and 
a  better  wine  than  this." 

Through  the  small,  latticed  window  fell  the 
melancholy  light  of  a  gloomy  evening.  The  rain 
pattered  monotonously. 

Further  on,  beyond  a  thin  clay  wall,  with  many 
holes  in  it,  was  a  stable.  A  smell  of  manure  came 
from  it.  The  clucking  of  hens,  the  shrill  piping 
of  chickens  and  the  grunting  of  pigs  were  mingled 
together. 

Milk  was  pouring  into  an  echoing  vessel;  the 
housewife  was  milking  her  cows.  The  soldiers 
were  quarreling  about  the  stakes,  and  abused  each 
other  in  whispers.  At  the  level  of  the  ground, 
between  the  osier  wattles,  lightly  smeared  with 
clay,  the  soft  pink  snout  of  a  sucking  pig  peeped 
through  a  crevice.  He  had  got  caught  in  a  trap, 
and  could  not  draw  back  his  head,  and  squeaked 
piteously. 

Publius  thought: 

"Well,  that  is  all  very  well,  but  meanwhile  we 
are  nearer  the  courtyard  than  the  court." 

His  excitement  had  passed.  The  tribune  also, 
after  his  incautious  confidences,  had  grown  weary. 
He  looked  at  the  grey  rainy  sky,  through  the  win- 
dow, at  the  pig's  snout,  at  the  sour  lees  of  the  bad 
wine  in  the  pewter  bowl,  at  the  dirty  soldiers,  and 
bitterness  came  over  him. 

He  struck  his  fist  on  the  table  till  it  staggered 
on  its  uneven  legs. 

"Here,  you  rogue,  you  betrayer  of  Christ,  Syro- 


12  Julian  the  Apostate. 

phenix!  Come  here.  What  kind  of  wine  is  that, 
you  rascal  ?" 

The  inn-keeper  ran  up.  He  had  hair  as  black 
as  jet,  in  little  curls,  and  a  beard  as  black,  even 
with  a  bluish  tinge,  and  also  in  innumerable  little 
ringlets.  In  moments  of  conjugal  tenderness, 
Fortunata  used  to  say  that  Syrophenix's  beard 
was  like  a  cluster  of  sweet  grapes.  His  eyes  were 
also  black  and  of  uncommon  sweetness.  A  won- 
derfully sweet  smile  never  left  his  lips,  bright  red 
lips.  He  was  like  a  caricature  of  Dionysus,  god 
of  wine,  and  seemed  altogether  black  and  sweet. 

The  inn-keeper  swore  by  Moses,  and  Dindymene, 
and  Christ,  and  Hercules,  that  the  wine  was  excel- 
lent; but  the  tribune  declared  that  he  knew  in 
whose  house  Glabrio,  the  Pamphylian  merchant, 
had  his  throat  cut  a  short  time  back,  and  that  he 
would  bring  him,  Syrophenix,  to  trial  one  of 
these  days.  The  terrified  Armenian  rushed  at  full 
speed  to  the  cellar,  and  soon  came  back,  trium- 
phantly carrying  a  bottle  of  unusual  form,  wide 
and  flat  below,  with  a  narrow  neck,  covered  with 
cobwebs  and  moss,  as  if  it  was  grey  with  old  age. 
Through  the  cobwebs  here  and  there  appeared  the 
glass,  no  longer  transparent,  but  dull,  with  a  slight 
rainbow  tint.  On  a  billet  of  cypress-wood,  hung 
around  the  neck  of  the  bottle,  you  could  make  out 
the  letters  "Anthosmium"  and,  further  on,  "an- 
norum  centum"  (a  hundred  years). 

But  Syrophenix  vowed  that  the  wine  had  been  a 
hundred  years  old  in  the  time  of  the  Emperor 
Diocletian. 

"Dark?"  asked  Publius,  ecstatically. 

"As  pitch,  and  perfumed  like  ambrosia.  Ho, 
Fortunata,  for  a  wine  like  this  we  need  the  crystal 


Scudilo  and  the  ]\Iagician.  13 

glasses.  And  bring  us  some  fresh,  white  snow 
from  the  ice-house." 

Fortunata  brought  two  goblets.  Her  face  had 
a  color  of  perfect  health,  with  a  pleasant  yellowish 
bloom,  like  the  ripest  plums.  It  seemed  that 
rustic  freshness  breathed  from  her.  and  a  scent  of 
new  milk,  a  farmyard  smell. 

The  inn-keeper  glanced  at  the  bottle  with  a 
sigh  of  adoration,  and  kissed  the  neck  of  it.  Then 
he  carefully  removed  the  wax  seal  and  uncorked  it. 
They  put  snow  in  the  bottom  of  the  crystal  cup. 
The  wine  trickled  forth  in  a  thick,  black,  scented 
stream,  the  Snow  melted"  from  the  strength  of  the 
fiery  Anthosmian,  and  the  crystal  sides  of  the 
goblet  were  dimmed  and  bedewed  by  the  cold. 
Then  Scudilo,  who  had  had  a  cheap  education, — 
he  was  capable  of  confusing  Hecuba  and  Hecate, 
— pompously  repeated  the  single  verse  of  Martial 
that  he  remembered: 

"The  crystal's  whiteness  darkens  with  old 
Falernian." 

"Wait  a  moment.    It  will  taste  better  yet." 

And  Syrophenix  plunged  his  hand  into  his  deep 
pocket  and  brought  forth  a  little  phial,  cut  from 
a  single  onyx,  and  with  a  feeling  smile  carefully 
poured  into  the  wine  a  single  drop,  of  precious 
Arabian  cinnamon.  The  drop  fell  into  the  black 
Anthosmian,  like  a  dull,  white  pearl,  and  melted 
into  the  wine.  A  sweet,  strange  odor  pervaded 
the  room. 

While  the  tribune  drank  slowly,  in  rapture, 
Syrophenix  clucked  his  tongue : 

"Byblian,  or  Maronian  from  Thrace,  or  Lace- 
nian  from  Chios,  or  Icarian  wine,  are  all  rubbish 
compared  to  this." 


14:  Julian  the  Apostate. 

It  grew  dark.  Scudilo  gave  the  order  to  pro- 
ceed homewards.  The  legionaries  buckled  on 
their  breastplates  and  helmets,  fastened  the  yellow 
greaves  on  their  right  legs,  and  took  their  shields 
and  swords. 

When  they  had  passed  beyond  the  partition,  the 
Isaurian  shepherds,  looking  like  brigands,  sitting 
round  their  fire,  rose  respectfully  before  the 
Eoman  tribune.  He  was  full  of  the  sense  of  his 
own  dignity,  and  his  head  hummed,  and  his  veins 
glowed  with  the  fire  of  the  noble  wine.  On  the 
threshold,  a  man  came  up  to  him,  in  a  strange 
eastern  dress,  a  white  robe,  with  red,  transverse 
stripes  and  a  high,  many-storied  headgear  of  felt, 
a  Persian  tiara,  that  looked  like  a  tower.  Scudilo 
stopped.  The  Persian's  face  was  refined,  long  and 
thin,  of  a  yellowish  olive  color.  His  narrow,  pier- 
cing eyes  were  full  of  deep,  crafty  thought.  In  his 
every  movement  there  was  an  expression  of 
haughty  calm.  He  was  one  of  the  wandering  con- 
jurors and  astrologers,  who  proudly  called  them- 
selves Chaldeans,  Magians,  and  Mathematicians. 
He  immediately  informed  the  tribune  that  his 
name  was  Nogodares;  he  was  staying  with  Syro- 
phenix  on  his  journey;  his  path  lay  from  distant 
Adiabene  to. the  shores  of  the  Ionian  Sea,  to  the 
renowned  philosopher  and  theurgian,  Maximus  of 
Ephesus.  The  magian  asked  permission  to  exhibit 
his  art  and  to  tell  the  tribune's  fortune. 

They  closed  the  shutters.  The  Persian  pre- 
pared something  on  the  floor.  Suddenly  a  slight 
crackling  was  heard.  All  became  silent.  A  ruddy 
flame  rose  in  a  long,  thin  tongue  from  the  smoke, 
which  filled  the  room  with  its  white  clouds.  No- 
godares  put  a  two-stemmed,  reed-pipe  to  his  blood- 


Scudilo  and  the  Magician.  15 

less  lips  and  played,  and  the  sound  was  sombre, 
pitiful  and  reminiscent  of  a  Lydian  funeral  song. 
The  flame,  as  if  affected  by  this  mournful  sound, 
grew  yellow,  then  faded,  and  then  flashed  up 
again  with  a  faint,  pale  blue  light.  The  magian 
threw  some  dried  herbs  into  the  flame.  A  strong, 
pleasant  odor  filled  the  room.  The  odor  also 
seemed  melancholy;  like  the  odor  of  half-dried 
grass,  on  a  misty  evening,  in  the  dead  wilderness 
of  Arachosia  or  Drangina. 

And  hearing  the  melancholy  sound  of  the  two- 
stemmed  pipe,  a  large  snake  began  to  glide  forth 
slowly  from  a  black  basket  at  the  magician's  feet, 
unwinding  its  folds  with  a  rustling  sound,  and 
glittering  with  a  metallic  sheen.  Then  he  began 
to  sing  in  a  low,  monotonous  voice,  so  that  the 
song  seemed  to  come  from  afar.  And  he  repeated 
the  same  words:  "Mara,  mara,  mara,"  many  times. 
The  snake  wound  itself  around  his  lean  body,  and 
caressingly,  with  a  soft  hissing,  brought  its  flat, 
green,  scaly  head,  with  eyes  glowing  like  car- 
buncles, close  to  the  magician's  ear;  the  long- 
forked  tongue  flashed  out  hissing,  as  if  it  was 
whispering  something.  The  magician  threw  the 
flute  on  the  ground.  The  flame  again  filled  the 
room  with  dim,  white  smoke,  but  this  time  with  a 
heavy  narcotic  odor,  as  if  of  the  tomb,  and  sud- 
denly went  out.  It  grew  dark  and  fearsome.  All 
were  bewildered.  But  when  they  opened  the 
shutters,  and  the  leaden  light  of  the  rainy  twilight 
entered  the  room,  there  was  not  a  trace  of  the 
snake  and  the  black  basket.  The  faces  of  all 
seemed  deadly  pale. 

Nogodares  came  close  to  the  tribune: 
"Rejoice!     The  great  and  signal  favor  of  the 


16  Julian  the  Apostate. 

blessed  Augustus  awaits  you;  the  early  favor  of 
the  Emperor  Constantius." 

Then  for  some  moments  he  examined  Scudilo's 
hand  and  the  lines  in  his  palm  inquisitively,  and, 
quickly  hending  to  his  ear,  so  that  no  one  could 
hear,  said  in  a  whisper: 

"Blood,  the  blood  of  Caesar  is  on  this  hand." 

Scudilo  was  terrified. 

"How  dare  you,  cursed  Chaldean  dog?  I  am  a 
loyal  servant!" 

But  the  other  almost  mockingly  gazed  into  his 
face,  with  a  penetrating  glance  of  his  cunning 
eyes,  and  whispered: 

"What  do  you  fear?  After  many  years.  And 
can  you  win  glory  without  blood?" 

When  the  soldiers  left  the  tavern,  pride  and 
gladness  filled  the  heart  of  Scudilo.  He  ap- 
proached the  holy  spring,  piously  crossing  himself, 
and  drank  some  of  the  healing  water,  invoking 
Cosnias  and  Damian  in  heartfelt  prayer,  and 
secretly  hoping  that  the  soothsaying  of  Nogodares 
would  not  prove  vain.  Then  he  sprang  on  his 
splendid  Cappadocian  stallion,  and  gave  the  sign 
for  the  legionaries  to  march.  The  standard- 
bearer  raised  the  standard  of  purple  cloth  em- 
broidered with  a  dragon.  The  tribune  was  over- 
come by  a  desire  to  make  a  show  before  the  crowd 
streaming  out  from  the  tavern  of  S}Tophenix.  He 
knew  that  it  was  dangerous,  but  could  not  restrain 
himself,  intoxicated  with  wine  and  pride.  Stretch- 
ing out  his  sword  in  the  direction  of  the  mist- 
covered  fortress,  he  cried  out  loudly  and  haughtily: 

"To  Macellum!" 

A  murmur  of  astonishment  arose;  the  names  of 
Julian  and  Gallus  were  uttered. 


A  Wandering  Conjurer.    (P.  14.) 


Julian's  Dream.  17 

The  trumpeter,  standing  in  front,  gave  the 
signal,  blowing  his  copper  "buccina,"  twisted  up- 
ward in  several  curves,  like  a  ram's  horn. 

The  long-drawn  sound  of  the  Roman  trumpet 
echoed  far  up  the  cliff,  and  the  mountain  echo 
sent  it  back  again. 


CHAPTER  II. 
JULIAN'S  DREAM. 

Darkness  reigned  in  the  great  sleeping-chamber 
of  Macellum,  once  the  palace  of  the  Cappadociau 
kings. 

Ten-year-old  Julian's  bed  was  hard;  a  bare 
board,  covered  with  a  leopard-skin.  The  boy  him- 
self desired  it  so.  It  was  not  in  vain  that  his  old 
tutor,  Mardonius,  deifying  the  wisdom  of  old, 
educated  him  in  the  stern  principles  of  the  Stoic 
philosophy. 

Julian  could  not  sleep.  The  wind  rose  from 
time  to  time  in  gusts  and  wailed  mournfully  in 
the  crevices  like  some  captive  animal.  Then  came 
sudden  stillness.  And  in  that  strange  stillness  he 
could  hear  the  large  rain-drops  fall  from  time  to 
time,  with  metallic  resonance,  on  the  stone  flags, 
evidently  from  a  great  height.  It  seemed  to  Julian 
that  in  the  dark  shadow  of  the  vaulted  roof  he 
could  catch  the  swift  rustle  of  a  bat's  wings.  He 
could  distinguish  the  heavy  breathing  of  his 
brother,  sleeping  on  a  soft  couch, — for  he  was  a 
delicate  and  fastidious  lad, — under  the  old-fash- 
ioned, dusty  baldachin,  the  last  remnant  of  the 


18  Julian  the  Apostate. 

luxury  of  the  Cappadocian  kings.  The  heavy 
snore  of  the  pedagogue  Mardonius  was  heard  in 
the  next  room. 

Suddenly  the  small,  heavily-clamped  door  of  the 
secret  staircase  in  the  wall  creaked  softly  and 
opened,  and  a  ray  of  light  dazzled  Julian's  eyes. 
The  old  slave-woman,  Labda,  entered.  She  was 
carrying  a  bronze  lamp  in  her  hand. 

"Nurse,  I  am  afraid;  do  not  take  the  light 
away." 

The  old  woman  set  the  lamp  in  the  semi-circular 
stone  niche  above  Julian's  pillow. 

"You  are  not  asleep?  Is  your  head  aching? 
Are  you  hungry?  That  old  sinner  Mardonius 
half  starves  you.  I  have  brought  you  some  honey- 
wafers.  They  are  good!  Taste!" 

To  feed  Julian  was  Labda's  greatest  delight. 
But  Mardonius  did  not  allow  it,  by  day,  so  she 
brought  him  dainties  secretly  at  night. 

Labda,  a  half-blind  old  woman,  who  could 
hardly  drag  her  feet  after  her,  always  went  about 
in  the  black  robe  of  a  nun.  She  was  considered 
a  Thessalian  witch.  But  she  was  a  pious  Chris- 
tian. The  haziest  ancient  and  modern  supersti- 
tions were  mingled  in  her  mind  into  a  strange, 
wild  religion.  She  mixed  prayers  and  incanta- 
tions, Olympian  gods  and  goat-legged  demons,  the 
rites  of  the  Church  and  witchcraft.  She  was  hung 
all  over  with  little  crosses,  sacreligious  amulets  of 
dead  bones,  and  charms  from  the  relics  of  saints. 

The  old  woman  loved  Julian  devotedly,  with  a 
superstitious  love,  holding  the  boy  to  be  the  sole 
lawful  heir  of  the  Emperor  Constantine,  and  Con- 
stantius  a  murderer  and  a  usurper. 

Labda  knew,  as  no  one  else  did,  the  whole 


Julian's  Dream.  19 

genealogical  tree,  and  all  the  immemorial  family 
traditions  of  the  house  of  Flavins,  and  remem- 
bered Julian's  grandfather,  Constantius  Chlorus. 
Bloody  court  secrets  were  hidden  in  her  memory. 
At  night  the  old  woman  told  everything  to  Julian^ 
indiscriminately  discerning.  And  though  there 
was  much  which  his  childish  mind  could  not 
understand,  his  heart  died  within  him  from  dim 
dread  and  indignation.  With  dull  eyes,  and  even 
monotonous  voice,  she  related  these  terrible,  end- 
less stories,  as  people  tell  old  tales. 

Setting  down  the  lamp,  the  old  woman  crossed 
Julian,  looked  to  see  whether  the  amber  amulet 
on  his  breast  was  safe,  and  repeating  two  or  three 
incantations,  to  drive  away  evil  spirits,  she  dis- 
appeared. 

Julian  sank  into  a  heavy  half-sleep.  He  was 
hot,  and  those  slow,  heavy  drops  of  water  tortured 
him,  falling  through  the  silence,  from  above,  as 
if  into  a  resounding  vessel. 

And  he  could  not  tell  whether  he  was  asleep  or 
not;  whether  it  was  the  night  wind  blowing,  or  old 
Labda,  like  one  of  the  Fates,  muttering  and  whis- 
pering in  his  ear  the  terrible  traditions  of  his 
family.  What  he  had  heard  from  her,  and  what 
he  himself  had  seen  in  his  childhood,  mingled 
together  in  a  confused  delirium. 

He  saw  the  corpse  of  the  great  emperor  on^a 
splendid  catafalque.  The  dead  man  was  rouged 
and  powdered;  a  many-storied  head-dress  of  false 
hair  had  been  made  by  skilful  wig-makers.  They 
brought  little  Julian  to  kiss  his  grandfather's 
hand  for  the  last  time.  The  child  was  afraid.  He 
was  dazzled  by  the  purple,  the  diadem  on  the  false 
curls  and  the  blaze  of  precious  stones,  glittering 


20  Julian  the  Apostate. 

in  the  light  .of  the  funeral  candles.  Through  the 
heavy  Arabian  incense  he  smelt  the  odor  of  death, 
the  smell  of  decay,  for  the  first  time.  But  the 
courtiers,  the  bishops,  the  eunuchs,  the  generals 
greeted  the  emperor  as  if  he  was  alive;  ambassadors 
bowed  before  him,  maintaining  their  pompous 
etiquette;  the  servants  of  the  government  read  out 
edicts,  laws,  and  decrees  of  the  senate,  seeking  the 
dead  man's  assent,  as  if  he  could  still  hear,  and  a 
whisper  of  flattery  hovered  over  the  crowd:  people 
assured  each  other  that  he  was  so  great  that  by 
the  special  grace  of  Providence  he  alone  reigned, 
even  after  his  death. 

And  the  boy  knows  that  he  slew  his  own  son. 
The  young  hero's  whole  fault  lay  in  this,  that  the 
people  loved  him.  The  son  was  calumniated  by 
his  stepmother;  she  loved  her  stepson  with  a 
criminal  love,  and  took  vengeance  on  him,  as 
Phaedra  did  on  Hippolytus.  Afterward  it  was  dis- 
covered that  the  wife  of  Caesar  was  concerned  in 
a  criminal  intrigue  with  one  of  the  slaves  employed 
in  the  imperial  stables,  and  she  was  stifled  in  a 
bath  of  scalding  water.  Then  came  the  turn  of 
the  noble  Licinius.  Corpse  after  corpse,  victim 
after  victim.  The  monarch,  tortured  by  con- 
science, prayed  the  hierophants  of  the  pagan  mys- 
teries to  purify  him,  but  they  refused.  Then 
Bishop  Oscius  assured  him  that  in  religion  alone 
there  were  mysteries  able  to  cleanse  him,  even 
from  such  crimes  as  these.  And  so  a  splendid 
Labarum,  a  standard  with  the  monogram  of  the 
Christ,  in  precious  stones,  now  glittered  above  the 
'Catafalque  of  him  who  slew  his  son. 

Julian  wished  to  wake,  to  open  his  eyes,  and 
could  not.  The  resounding  drops  fell  ss  before, 


Julian's  Dream.  21 

like  heavy,  slow  tears,  and  the  wind  whispered; 
but  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  was  not  the  wind,  but 
that  Labda  was  whispering,  like  an  ancient  Fate, 
muttering  in  his  ear  the  terrible  tales  of  the  house 
of  Flavius,  with  her  toothless  lips. 

Julian  dreamed  that  he  was  in  the  cold  damp- 
ness, beside  the  porphyry  sarcophagi,  filled  with 
the  dust  of  kings,  in  the  family  crypt  of  Constan- 
tius  Chlorus.  Labda  was  covering  him,  and  hiding 
him  in  the  darkest  corner,  among  the  coffins;  and 
was  rocking  sick  Gallus  to  sleep,  for  he  was  ill  with 
fever.  Suddenly  a  death-like  cry  echoed  up  above 
in  the  palace,  from  room  to  room,  beneath  the 
vaulted  stone  roofs  of  the  resounding,  deserted 
arcades.  Julian  recognized  his  father's  voice,  and 
tried  to  cry  out  in  answer  and  to  run  to  him.  But 
Labda  held  the  boy  back  with  her  bony  hands, 
and  whispered:  "Hush,  hush,  or  they  will  come!" 
and  covered  him  over  from  head  to  foot.  Then 
slow  steps  sounded  on  the  stairs,  ever  nearer  and 
nearer.  Labda  crossed  the  boy  and  whispered 
incantations.  A  knock  at  the  door,  and  by  the 
gleam  of  torches  were  seen  the  soldiers  of  Caesar. 
They  were  disguised  as  monks.  The  Bishop  Euse- 
bius,  of  Nicomedia,  led  them.  Breast-plates 
gleamed  under  their  black  gowns. 

"In  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son, 
and  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  open!  Who  is  here?" 

Labda  shrank  into  the  corner  with  the  children. 
And  again  reechoed  the  words: 

"In  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son, 
and  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  who  is  here?"  And  again 
the  third  time.  Then  the  murderers  probed  the 
corners,  with  their  naked  sword-blades.  Labda 


99 


Julian  the  Apostate. 


threw  herself  at  their  feet,  and  showed  them  sick 
Gallus  and  helpless  Julian. 

"Fear  God!  What  can  a  five-year-old  boy  do 
against  the  emperor?"  And  the  soldiers  forced 
all  three  of  them  to  kiss  the  cross  in  the  hands  of 
Eusebius  and  swear  fealty  to  the  new  emperor. 
Julian  remembered  the  great  cross  of  enameled 
cypress  wood,  with  the  image  of  the  Saviour; 
lower  down,  on  the  old,  dark  wood,  were  visible 
traces  of  fresh  blood,  reddening  the  hands  of  the 
murderer  who  held  the  cross.  It  might  be  the 
blood  of  his  father,  or  of  one  of  his  six  cousins, 
Dalmatius,  Hannibalianus,  Nepotianus,  Constan- 
tine,  the  younger,  or  the  others.  The  fratricide 
stepped  over  seven  corpses  to  mount  the  throne, 
and  all  was  accomplished  in  the  name  of  Him 
who  was  crucified  on  the  cross.  And  more  and 
more, — many  a  victim  to  count  and  to  remember 
whom  was  difficult. 

Julian  awoke  from  fear  and  from  the  silence. 
The  loud,  slow  drops  had  ceased  to  fall.  The 
wind  was  stilled.  The  lamp,  unflickering,  burned 
in  the  niche  with  a  steady,  thin,  long  tongue  of 
flame.  He  sprang  up  on  his  bed,  listening  to  the 
loud  beating  of  his  own  heart.  .  The  silence  was 
deathlike  and  intolerable.  Suddenly,  below,  re- 
sounded loud  voices  and  steps,  from  room  to  room, 
under  the  vaulted  roofs  of  stone,  along  the  echo- 
ing, deserted  arcades,  here  in  Macellum,  as  there 
in  the  crypt  of  the  Flavii.  Julian  shuddered;  he 
thought  he  was  still  delirious.  The  steps  drew 
near  and  the  voices  grew  clearer.  Then  he  cried 
out: 

"Brother!  brother!  are  you  sleeping?  Mar- 
donius!  Do  you  not  hear?" 


Julian's  Dream.  23 

Gallus  awoke.  Mardonius,  barefoot,  with  dis- 
heveled gray  hair,  in  a  short  night  tunic — a 
eunuch,  with  wrinkled,  yellow  and  puffy  face,  like 
an  old  woman's, — ran  to  the  secret  door. 

"The  prefect's  soldiers!  Dress  quickly!  We 
must  flee!" 

But  it  was  too  late.  The  creak  of  iron  was 
heard.  The  small,  iron-studded  door  was  shut 
from  the  outside.  On  the  stone  pillars  of  the  great 
stairway  gleamed  the  light  of  torches,  and  in  the 
light  appeared  the  purple  standard  and  the  shi- 
ning cross  with  the  monogram  of  the  Christ  on  the 
helmet  of  one  of  the  legionaries. 

"In  the  name  of  the  orthodox  and  hlessed 
Augustus,  the  Emperor  Constantius,  I  Marcus 
Scudilo,  tribune  of  the  legion  of  Fretensis,  take 
under  my  ward  Julian  and  Gallus,  sons  of  the 
patrician  Julius." 

Mardonius,  with  his  sword  drawn,  stood,  bar- 
ring the  path  of  the  soldiers,  before  the  closed 
door  of  the  sleeping-chamber,  in  a  most  martial 
pose.  His  sword  was  dull  and  good  for  nothing. 
It  served  the  old  pedagogue  only  during  the 
lessons  of  the  Iliad  to  show  his  pupils,  by  living 
examples  in  classic  pose,  how  Hector  fought  with 
Achilles.  The  scholastic  Achilles  could  hardly 
have  beheaded  a  fowl.  Now  he  flourished  the  dull 
sword  before  Publius'  nose,  according  to  all  the 
rules  of  the  military  art  of  Homer's  time.  Pub- 
lius, who  was  drunk,  grew  furious  at  this. 

"Out  of  the  way  you  lard-bladder,  old  carrion, 
wind-bellows!  Away,  if  you  do  not  want  me  to 
pierce  a  hole  and  let  the  wind  out  of  you!" 

He  seized  Mardonius  by  the  throat  and  threw 
him  so  fnr  that  he  struck  the  wall  mid  almost  fell. 


24  Julian  the  Apostate. 

Scudilo  ran  to  the  doors  of  the  sleeping-chamber 
and  flung  them  open. 

The  steady  flame  of  the  bronze  lamp  grew  pale 
in  the  red  light  of  the  torches. 

And  the  tribune  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
beheld  the  last  descendants  of  Constantius 
Chlorus.  Gallus  looked  tall  and  strong.  But  his 
skin  was  fine,  white  and  soft,  like  a  girl's.  His 
eyes  were  light  blue,  lazy  and  indifferent.  His 
hair  was  fair  as  flax, — a  common  sign  of  the  race 
of  Constantine, — and,  falling  in  curls,  it  covered 
his  strong,  healthy  neck.  In  spite  of  the  manly 
mold  of  his  body  and  the  light  down  beginning  to 
appear  on  his  chin,  eighteen-year-old  Gallus 
seemed  a  mere  boy;  such  innocent  bewilderment 
and  childish  fear  were  manifested  in  his  face.  His 
lips  trembled  like  a  little  child's  when  it  is  begin- 
ning to  cry,  and  he  helplessly  winked  his  eyelids, 
red  and  swollen  with  sleep,  with  their  light 
lashes,  and  slowly  crossed  himself,  whispering: 
"Lord  have  mercy!  Lord  have  mercy!" 

Julian  was  a  lank  child,  lean  and  pale.  His 
face  was  ugly  and  irregular.  His  hair  was  coarse, 
smooth  and  black.  His  nose  was  too  large.  His 
lower  lip  stuck  out.  But  his  eyes  were  remark- 
able; making  his  face  one  of  those  which  once 
seen  can  never  be  forgotten, — large,  strange, 
changeable,  with  a  mature,  intense  and  morbidly 
bright  glitter,  which  sometimes  seemed  mad. 
Publius,  who  in  his  youth  had  often  seen  Con- 
stantine the  Great,  thought: 

"That  boy  will  be  like  his  uncle." 

Julian's  fear  at  the  presence  of  the  soldiers  van- 
ished. He  felt  only  anger.  Clenching  his  teeth, 
he  cast  the  leopard-skin  from  the  bed  across  his 


Julian's  Dream.  25 

shoulders  and  gazed  at  Scudilo  steadily,  with  knit 
brows,  and  his  protruding  lip  trembled.  In  his 
right  hand,  under  the  leopard-skin,  he  grasped  the 
hilt  of  a  keen  Persian  dagger,  secretly  given  to 
him  by  Labda.  The  point  was  poisoned  with  a 
deadly  venom. 

"Wolf's  cub!"  muttered  one  of  the  legionaries, 
pointing  at  Julian,  to  one  of  his  companions. 

Scudilo  wished  to  pass  the  threshold  of  the 
sleeping-chamber,  when  a  new  thought  came  to 
Mardonius.  He  cast  his  useless  sword  away,  caught 
the  tribune  by  his  cloak,  and  suddenly  cried  out 
in  a  piercing,  unexpectedly  shrill  and  womanish 
voice: 

"What  are  you  doing,  knave!  How  dare  you 
insult  the  messenger  of  the  Emperor  Constantius? 
I  am  charged  to  bring  these  imperial  scions  to  the 
court.  Augustus  has  restored  them  to  his  favor! 
Here  is  the  order  from  Constantinople." 

"What  does  he  say?    What  order?" 

Scudilo  glanced  at  Mardonius.  The  wrinkled 
old-woman's  face  bore  witness  that  he  was  really 
a  eunuch.  The  tribune  had  never  seen  Mardonius 
before,  but  he  well  knew  in  what  high  favor  the 
eunuchs  were  held  at  the  emperor's  court. 

Mardonius  hastily  drew  a  packet  forth  from  the 
great  book-chest,  with  the  parchment  rolls  of 
Hesiod  and  Homer,  and  gave  it  to  the  tribune. 

Scudilo  unrolled  it  and  turned  pale.  He  only 
read  the  first  words,  saw  the  name  of  the  emperor, 
who  called  himself,  in  the  edict,  "Our  Eternity," 
and  did  not  notice  either  the  year  or  the  month. 
When  the  tribune  saw  the  immense  and  familiar 
seal  of  the  emperor,  of  dark  green  wax,  on  gilded 


26  Julian  the  Apostate. 

ribbons,  a  mist  came  before  his  eyes.  He  felt  his 
knees  trembling. 

"Forgive  me!    This  is  a  mistake!" 

"What,  you  knaves!  forth  from  here;  don't  leave 
a  trace  of  yourselves!  And  drunk,  too!  The 
emperor  shall  know  all!" 

Mardonius  quickly  snatched  the  paper  from 
Scudilo's  trembling  hands. 

"Do  not  ruin  me!  We  are  all  brothers;  we  are  all 
sinful  people.  I  pray  you  in  the  name  of  Christ." 

"I  know  what  you  do  in  the  name  of  Christ, 
rascal!  Forth  from  here!" 

The  poor  tribune  made  a  sign  of  surrender. 
Then  Mardonius  once  more  raised  the  blunt  sword 
and,  brandishing  it,  took  the  classic  pose  of  an 
ancient  warrior.  The  drunken  centurion  alone 
struggled  toward  him,  crying: 

"Let  me  go,  let  me  go!  Fll  stick  him  and  see 
how  the  old  lard-bladder  bursts!" 

They  dragged  the  drunken  man  away  by  the 
arms. 

When  their  steps  had  ceased,  and  Mardonius 
was  satisfied  that  the  danger  was  over,  he  laughed 
aloud.  His  whole  flabby,  effeminate  body  quivered 
with  laughter.  The  old  man  forgot  the  dignity 
and  decency  of  the  pedagogue  and  hopped  about 
on  his  weak,  bare  legs,  in  his  night  tunic,  crying 
out  exultantly: 

"Children,  my  children!  Glory  be  to  Hermes! 
We  cheated  them  cleverly!  The  edict  is  three 
years  old.  Fools,  fools!" 

Before  sunrise  Julian  sank  into  a  deep,  quiet 
sleep.  He  awoke  late,  refreshed  and  gay,  when 
the  pale  blue  sky  was  gleaming  through  the  high 
lattice  of  the  window  of  the  sleeping-chamber. 


CHAPTER  III. 
THE  MONK  EUTROPIUS. 

In  the  morning  came  the  lesson  in  the  cathe- 
chism.  The  teacher  of  theology  was  the  monk 
Eutropius,  an  Arian  presbyter,  with  hands  that 
were  always  damp,  cold  and  bony;  with  pale, 
melancholy,  frog-like  eyes;  bent,  long  as  a  pole, 
thin  as  a  splinter.  He  had  a  repulsive  habit  of 
furtively  licking  the  palm  of  his  hand,  then 
quickly  stroking  his  thin,  gray  temples  with  it, 
and  immediately  clasping  his  fingers  together  and 
cracking  his  knuckles.  Julian  knew  that  the  one 
movement  would  inevitably  be  followed  by  the 
other,  and  this  irritated  him  to  the  verge  of  mad- 
ness. Eutropius  wore  a  patched  black  gown  with 
many  stains,  asserting  that  he  wore  poor  garments 
from  humility.  In  reality,  he  was  a  miser. 

Eusebius,  of  Nicomedia,  Julian's  spiritual  guar- 
dian, had  chosen  this  teacher. 

The  monk  suspected  in  his  young  pupil  a  secret 
contumacy  of  spirit,  which,  if  not  overcome,  in  the 
teacher's  opinion,  threatened  Julian  with  everlast- 
ing damnation. 

The  teacher  was  unwearying  in  speaking  of  the 
feelings  which  the  boy  ought  to  entertain  toward 
his  benefactor  Constantius.  Whether  he  was  ex- 
plaining the  text  of  the  New  Testament,  or  the 
Arian  dogmas,  or  the  allegories  of  the  prophets, 
everything  led  to  that,  to  "the  root  of  holy  obe- 
dience and  filial  subjection."  It  seemed  that  the 

27 


28  Julian  the  Apostate. 

religion  of  love,  with  all  its  martyr  sacrifices,  was 
only  the  flight  of  steps  up  which  the  triumphant 
Constantius  had  ascended  to  the  throne.  But 
sometimes  while  the  monk  was  speaking  of  the 
emperor's  benefactions  heaped  on  Julian,  the  boy 
looked  into  his  teacher's  eyes  with  a  deep  and 
silent  gaze.  He  knew  the  monk's  thoughts  at  the 
moment,  and  the  monk  likewise  knew  the  thoughts 
of  his  pupil.  And  neither  of  them  uttered  a  word. 
But  afterward,  if  Julian  broke  down,  forgetting 
some  text,  or  the  names  of  the  Old  Testament 
patriarchs,  or  failed  to  repeat  some  prayer,  Eutro- 

Eius  looked  at  him  exulting,  in  silence,  with  his 
rog-like  eyes,  and  softly  caught  Julian's  ear  be- 
tween his  finger  and  thumb,  as  if  caressing  him. 
The  boy  felt  the  two  sharp,  cruel  nails  slowly 
burying  themselves  in  his  ear.  Eutropius,  in 
spite  of  his  forbidding  character,  was  of  a  mocking 
and  even  gay  humor.  He  gave  his  pupil  the  ten- 
derest  titles:  "My  dear,"  "first-born  of  my  soul," 
"my  beloved  son,"  and  made  sport  of  his  imperial 
origin.  Every  time  when  he  pinched  Julian's  ear, 
and  his  pupil  grew  white  with  anger  rather  than 
with  pain,  Eutropius  said  in  a  cringing  voice: 

"Is  not  your  Majesty  displeased  with  your 
humble  and  unlearned  slave,  Eutropius?" 

"And,  licking  his  palm,  he  stroked  his  temple 
and  softly  cracked  his  knuckles,  adding  that  it 
would  sometimes  be  a  good  thing,  a  very  good 
thing,  to  give  ill-tempered  and  idle  boys  a  lesson 
with  the  rod,  that  this  was  even  the  counsel  of 
Holy  Writ,  that  the  rod  enlightened  a  dark  and 
rebellious  spirit.  This  he  said  only  to  subdue  the 
"devilish  spirit  of  pride"  in  Julian.  The  boy 
knew  that  Eutropius  would  not  dare  to  carry  out 


The  Monk  Eutropius.  29 

his  threats;  and  the  monk  himself  was  secretly 
convinced  that  the  boy  would  rather  die  thaii 
allow  himself  to  be  beaten.  Yet  the  teacher  often 
spoke  of  it,  and  at  great  length. 

At  the  end  of  a  lesson,  when  a  text  was  being 
explained,  Julian  happened  to  drop  some  hint  of 
the  antipodes,  about  which  he  had  heard  from 
Mardonius.  Perhaps  Julian  did  this  intention- 
ally to  exasperate  the  monk.  But  the  latter 
laughing  a  thin,  crackling  laugh,  carefully  cover- 
ed his  mouth  with  his  hand. 

"And  who  told  you  about  the  antipodes,  my 
dear?  Well,  you  have  made  me  laugh,  sinner  that 
I  am.  I  know,  I  know  that  the  old  fool  Plato 
speaks  of  them  somewhere.  And  so  you  believe 
that  people  walk  upside  down?" 

And  Eutropius  set  himself  to  confute  the  god- 
less heresy  of  the  philosophers.  Was  it  not  shame- 
ful to  think  that  men,  made  in  the  image  and 
likeness  of  the  Creator,  should  walk  on  their 
heads,  making  a  mockery  of  the  firmament?  And 
when  Julian,  wounded  for  his  beloved  sages,  spoke 
of  the  earth's  spherical  form,  Eutropius  suddenly 
ceased  laughing  and  flew  into  such  a  passion  that 
he  grew  scarlet,  and  stamped  his  feet. 

"You  have  heard  this  godless  lie  from  Mardo- 
nius, from  that  old  heathen!" 

When  he  was  angry  he  stuttered  in  his  speech, 
and  the  spittle  flew  in  flecks  from  his  lips.  It 
seemed  to  Julian  that  this  spittle  was  poisonous. 
The  monk  fell  savagely  on  all  the  sages  of  Hellas. 
He  forgot  that  he  was  speaking  to  a  child  and 
launched  into  a  whole  sermon,  which  wounded 
Julian  in  a  sensitive  place.  He  attacked  Pythag- 
oras, as  an  old  man  fallen  into  his  dotage,  in 


30  Julian  the  Apostate. 

the  most  shameful  terms.  And  Plato's  ravings 
seemed  to  him  not  worth  talking  about.  He 
simply  called  them  abominable,  and  spoke  of  the 
great  pupil  of  Socrates  as  an  imbecile. 

"Head  what  Diogenes  Laerlius  says  about  Soc- 
rates," he  said  to  Julian,  with  malicious  pleasure, 
"and  you  will  see  that  he  was  a  usurer,  and  besides 
that,  he  stained  himself  with  sins  which  it  is  not 
lawful  even  to  speak  about/' 

But  a  special  detestation  was  awakened  in  him 
toward  Epicurus. 

"I  hold  him  to  be  unworthy  of  an  answer.  The 
bestiality  with  which  he  plunged  into  all  kinds  of 
passions,  and  the  baseness  with  which  he  made 
himself  the  slave  of  sensual  pleasures,  show  well 
enough  that  he  was  not  a  man,  but  a  beast!" 

Quieting  down  a  little,  be  began  to  explain  some 
impalpable  shade  of  Arian  dogma.,  falling  with 
peculiar  bitterness  on  the  orthodox  Catholic 
Church,  which  Eutropius  counted  heretical. 

Through  the  window,  from  the  splendid,  de- 
serted garden,  came  a  breath  of  freshness.  Julian 
pretended  to  listen  attentively  to  Eutropius.  In 
reality  he  was  thinking  of  other  things, — thinking 
of  his  dear  teacher  Mardonius,  and  remembering 
his  learned  lectures,  his  readings  from  Homer  and 
Hesiod.  How  unlike  they  were  to  the  monk's 
lessons! 

Mardonius  did  not  read  Homer,  but  chanted 
him  in  the  manner  of  the  old  rhapsodists,  and 
Labda  laughed  at  him,  saying  that  he  howled  like 
a  dog  at  the  moon.  And  in  fact,  for  people  who 
Avere  not  used  to  it,  it  was  droll  at  first.  The  old 
eunuch  conscientiously  scanned  every  foot  of  the 
hexameters,  waving  his  hand  in  time,  and  a  tri- 


The  Monk  Eutropius.  31 

umphant  grandeur  covered  his  yellow,  wrinkled 
face.  But  as  his  thin,  womanish  voice  grew  ever 
louder  and  louder  Julian  no  longer  noticed  the 
the  old  man's  ugliness,  but  only  his  living,  pas- 
sionate soul,  moved  and  stirred  by  the  perfection 
of  beauty.  A  shiver  of  delight  ran  down  his  back. 
The  divine  hexameters  mingled  and  flowed  like 
waves.  He  saw  the  parting  of  Hector  and  Andro- 
mache; Odysseus  longing  for  his  Ithaca,  on  Ca- 
lypso's isle,  before  the  sad,  unharvested  sea.  And 
a  sweet  pain  stirred  Julian's  heart;  a  longing  for 
beloved,  ever-living  Hellas,  the  motherland  of  the 
gods,  the  motherland  of  all  who  love  beauty. 
Tears  trembled  in  the  teacher's  voice,  tears  flowed 
down  his  yellow  cheeks. 

At  times  Mardonius  spoke  to  the  boy  of  wisdom, 
of  the  stern  worthies,  of  the  death  of  heroes  for 
freedom.  And  how  unlike  these  speeches  also 
were  to  the  lessons  of  Eutropius;  Mardonius  told 
him  of  the  life  of  Socrates.  When  he  came  to  the 
"Apology"  before  the  people  of  Athens,  the  teacher 
sprang  to  his  feet,  took  up  an  attitude  of  stately 
dignity,  and  declaimed  the  philosopher's  speech 
from  memory.  His  face  grew  peaceful  and  rather 
disdainful.  It  seemed  as  if  he  were  not  judged 
by  the  people,  but  judging  the  people.  Socrates 
asked  not  for  mercy.  All  the  power,  all  the  laws 
of  the  state,  were  as  nothing  before  the  freedom 
of  the  human  soul.  The  Athenians  might  put  him 
to  death,  but  could  never  take  away  the  freedom 
and  happiness  of  his  immortal  spirit.  And  when 
this  Scythian,  this  barbarian,  who  had  been  bought 
a  slave  from  the  banks  of  the  Borysthenes,  loudly 
repeated  "Liberty!"  it  seemed  to  Julian  that  there 
was  such  a  superhuman  beauty  in  that  word  that 


32  Julian  the  Apostate. 

even  the  fair  imagery  of  Homer  grew  pale  before 
it,  and  gazing  with  wide-open,  almost  ecstatic 
eyes,  at  his  teacher,  he  trembled  and  grew  white 
for  very  joy. 

The  boy  woke  up  from  his  dreams,  feeling  the 
cold,  bony  fingers  approaching  his  ears.  The 
lesson  in  the  catechism  was  at  an  end.  Kneeling 
down,  he  pronounced  a  prayer  of  gratitude. 

Then  leaving  Eutropius,  he  ran  swiftly  to  his 
room,  took  a  book,  and  went  to  his  favorite  nook 
in  the  garden,  to  read  in  peace.  The  book  was 
interdicted:  "The  Symposium  of  the  Blasphe- 
mous and  Unclean  Plato."  On  the  stair,  Julian 
unexpectedly  ran  into  the  departing  Eutropius. 

"Wait,  wait,  my  dear!  What  sort  of  a  book  has 
you  Majesty  got?" 

Julian  looked  up  at  him  quietly  and  gave  him 
the  book. 

On  the  parchment  binding,  Eutropius  read  the 
title  in  large  letters:  "The  Epistles  of  Paul  the 
Apostle."  He  gave  it  back,  without  opening  it. 

"Oh!  that's  it,  is  it?  Remember  that  I  am 
responsible  for  your  soul  before  God,  and  before 
the  mighty  Emperor.  Do  not  read  heretical  books, 
especially  the  philosophers,  whose  vain  learning  I 
sufficiently  confuted  to-day." 

That  was  the  boy's  usual  subterfuge.  He 
wrapped  the  dangerous  books  in  bindings  with 
innocent  titles.  From  his  childhood,  Julian  had 
learned  to  dissemble,  with  more  than  a  child's 
skill.  He  took  a  pleasure  in  deceiving,  especially 
Eutropius.  He  sometimes  pretended,  dissembled, 
and  deceived,  without  any  particular  need,  from 
mere  habit,  misleading  everyone  except  Mardonius, 
with  a  feeling  of  malicious  and  vengeful  pleasure. 


The  Monk  Entropitis.  33 

In  Macellura,  amongst  numberless  idle  servants, 
men  and  women,  there  was  no  end  of  intrigue, 
slander,  gossip,  suspicion,  tale-bearing.  All  this 
servile  throng,  in  the  hope  of  some  personal 
profit,  day  and  night  spied  on  the  royal  brothers 
fallen  into  disfavor.  Since  Julian  could  remem- 
ber, he  had  expected  death  from  day  to  day,  and 
little  by  little  had  almost  grown  accustomed  to 
perpetual  fear,  knowing  that  neither  in  the  house 
nor  in  the  garden  could  he  take  a  step  or  make  a 
movement  that  might  escape  thousands  of  curious, 
unseen  eyes.  The  boy  heard  much,  and  under- 
stood much,  but  had  to  pretend  he  neither  heard 
nor  understood.  Once  he  overheard  a  few  words 
of  a  conversation  between  Eutropius  and  a  spy 
sent  from  Constantius,  in  which  the  monk  called 
Julian  and  Gallus  the  royal  whelps.  At  another 
time  in  the  gallery,  under  the  windows  of  the 
kitchen,  the  boy  involuntarily  heard  how  the 
drunken  old  cook,  irritated  by  some  impertinence 
of  Gallus,  said  to  the  slave-woman,  his  paramour, 
who  was  washing  dishes:  "God  protect  my  soul, 
Priscilla, — I  cannot  understand  how  it  is  they 
have  not  smothered  them  yet!" 

When  Julian,  after  the  catechetical  lesson,  ran 
from  the  house,  and  saw  the  greenness  of  the  trees, 
he  breathed  more  freely. 

The  eternal  snows  of  the  two-peaked  summit 
of  the  Argian  mount  gleamed  white  against  the 
blueness  of  the  sky.  A  cool  breath  blew  from  the 
neighboring  glaciers.  Paths  led  away  into  the  dis- 
tance, through  the  impenetrable  shadow  of  south- 
ern stone-oaks,  with  their  small,  shining,  dark- 
green  leaves.  Here  and  there  a  ray  broke  through, 
and  fell  on  the  green  of  the  plane-trees.  On  one 


34  Julian  the  Apostate. 

side  of  the  garden  there  was  no  wall.  It  ended 
there  in  a  declivity.  Beneath  extended  the  dead 
desert  to  the  very  horizon,  to  Antitaurus.  A  hot 
breath  came  up  from  it;  but  in  the  garden,  cold 
water  sounded,  murmuring  and  bubbling  foun- 
tains played,  and  streamlets  gurgled  under  clumps 
of  oleanders.  Macellum  a  century  ago  had  been 
the  favorite  retreat  of  Ariarathes,  the  luxurious 
and  half-mad  king  of  Cappadocia. 

Julian  took  his  way  with  his  Plato  to  a  lonely 
grotto,  not  far  from  the  declivity.  There  stood 
goat-legged  Pan,  playing  his  fhite,  and  a  little 
altar.  From  a  lion's  mouth,  a  stream  of  water  fell 
into  a  marble  shell.  The  entrance  was  curtained 
by  tea-roses.  Through  them  were  seen  the  hillocks 
of  the  desert,  misty-blue,  undulating  like  the  sea. 
The  scent  of  the  tea-roses  filled  the  cave,  and  the 
air  would  have  been  heavy  but  for  the  crystal 
spring.  The  wind  brought  with  it  pale  yellow 
leaves,  strewing  them  on  the  ground,  and  in  the 
water  of  the  basin;  and  the  humming  of  bees  was 
heard  in  the  warm,  dark  air. 

Julian,  lying  on  the  moss,  read  the  "Banquet." 
Much  of  it  he  did  not  understand.  But  the  charm 
of  the  book  lay  in  its  being  forbidden. 

Laying  Plato  aside,  he  wrapped  it  again  in  the 
binding  of  the  Epistles  of  Paul  the  Apostle,  went 
softly  up  to  Pan's  altar,  gazed  a  while  at  the  jolly 
god,  as  at  an  old  companion,  and  lying  on  his 
breast  on  the  yellow  leaves,  brought  forth  from 
the  interior  of  the  altar,  broken  and  covered  with 
a  thin  board,  an  object  which  was  carefully 
wrapped  up  in  a  piece  of  cloth.  Unwrapping  it 
tenderly,  the  boy  set  it  before  him.  It  was  his 
own  handiwork,  a  splendid  toy  ship,  a  Liburnian 


The  ]\Ionk  Entropius.  35 

trireme.  He  came  close  to  the  basin,  and  put 
the  boat  into  the  water.  The  trireme  rocked  on 
the  little  waves.  It  was  complete, — three  masts,, 
rigging,  oars,  a  gilded  beak,  and  a  sail,  made  from 
a  silk  rag  that  Labda  had  given  him.  It  remained 
to  make  the  rudder,  and  the  boy  set  to  work. 
Whittling  a  piece  of  wood;  he  looked  away  now 
and  then  into  the  distance,  at  the  undulating  hills 
that  peeped  between  the  roses.  And  over  his  toy 
ship  he  soon  forgot  all  insults,  all  his  hatred  and 
perpetual  fear  of  death.  In  his  grotto,  he  imag- 
ined himself  lost  somewhere  amongst  the  waves;, 
in  a  desert  cave,  high  above  the  sea, — subtle- 
souled  Odysseus,  building  a  ship  to  return  to  his 
beloved  Ithaca.  But  there,  among  the  hillocks, 
where  gleamed  the  roofs  of  Cesarea,  like  the  foam 
of  the  sea,  a  cross,  a  little,  shining  cross,  over  a 
basilica,  tormented  him.  That  everlasting  cross! 
He  tried  not  to  see  it,  consoling  himself  with  hie 
trireme. 

"Julian!  Julian!  Where  is  he?  It  is  time  for 
church!  Eutropius  is  calling  you  to  church!" 

The  boy  shuddered,  and  .hurriedly  hid  his  tri- 
reme in  the  hollow  of  the  altar. 

Then  he  set  his  hair  and  clothing  in  order,  and 
when  he  left  the  grotto,  his  face  had  again  taken 
on  its  impenetrable  and  unchildlike  expression 
of  deep  dissimulation,  as  if  life  had  flown  away 
from  it. 

Eutropius,  holding  Julian's  hand  in  his  cold,, 
bony  hand,  led  him  to  the  church. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  BASILICA  OF  SAINT  MAURICE. 

The  Arian  basilica  of  Saint  Maurice  was  almost 
•»  wholly  built  of  stones  from  the  ruined  temple  of 
Apollo. 

The  sacred  court,  the  atrium,  was  surrounded 
on  its  four  sides  by  colonnades.  In  the  center 
a  fountain  bubbled,  for  the  ablutions  of  the  wor- 
shippers. In  one  of  the  side  porticos  was  an  old 
sarcophagus  of  carved  and  blackened  oak.  In  the 
coffin  lay  the  miracle-working  remains  of  Saint 
Mamas.  Eutropius  set  Julian  and  Gallus  to  build 
a  stone  grotto  over  the  relics.  The  work  of  Gallua, 
who  considered  it  a  pleasant  exercise,  got  on  won- 
derfully; but  Julian's  wall  kept  falling  all  the 
time.  Eutropius  explained  this  by  saying  the 
Saint  Mamas  refused  the  offering  of  the  boy,  who 
was  possessed  of  a  spirit  of  demoniac  pride. 

Near  the  grotto  was  a  crowd  of  sick  folk,  waiting 
to  be  healed.  One  of  the  Arian  monks  held  a  pair 
of  scales.  The  pilgrims,  many  of  them  from  dis- 
tant villages,  many  parasargs  off,  carefully  weighed 
pieces  of  linen,  woolen  or  silk  stuff,  and  laying 
them  on  the  tomb  of  Saint  Mamas,  prayed  for  a 
long  time,  sometimes  through  the  whole  night 
until  morning.  Then  they  weighed  the  same 
piece  of  stuff  again,  to  compare  it  with  its  former 
weight.  If  the  stuff  was  heavier,  it  meant  that 
the  prayer  was  heard,  that  the  saint  had  given  his 
blessing  like  evening  dew,  falling  on  the  silk,  the 
36 


The  Basilica  of  Saint  Maurice.  37 

linen,  or  the  wool,  and  now  the  stuff  could  heal 
diseases.  But  often  the  prayers  remained  un- 
heard, the  stuff  remained  light,  and  the  pilgrims 
passed  days,  weeks,  or  months  beside  the  tomb. 
There  was  one  poor  woman  there,  an  old  nun, 
Theodyle  by  name:  some  thought  she  was  a  saint; 
others  thought  her  half  mad.  For  years  she  had 
not  left  the  tomb  of  Saint  Mamas.  The  sick 
daughter,  for  whom  the  pilgrim  had  originally 
asked  the  saint's  blessing,  had  died  long  ago,  and 
Theodyle  went  on  praying  as  before,  over  her 
piece  of  faded,  ragged  cloth. 

From  the  atrium,  three  doors  led  into  the  Arian 
basilica:  one  of  them  into  the  men's  division; 
another  into  the  women's  division;  the  third,  to 
the  division  for  the  monks  and  the  clergy. 

Along  with  Gallus  and  Eutropius,  Julian  en- 
tered by  the  middle  door.  He  was  the  anagnost 
of  St.  Maurice's;  that  is,  the  church  reader.  A 
long  black  robe  with  wide  sleeves  covered  him. 
His  hair,  anointed  with  olive  oil,  was  held  back 
by  a  thin  band,  to  keep  it  out  of  his  eyes,  while 
he  was  reading.  He  passed  through  the  crowd, 
with  humbly  bent  head.  His  pale  face  almost 
involuntarily  took  on  the  expression  of  hypocrit- 
ical humility,  which  was  indispensable,  and  to 
which  he  had  long  accustomed  it. 

He  entered  the  high  Arian  ambo. 

The  frescoes  on  one  of  the  walls  represented  the 
martyrdom  of  St.  Euphemia.  The  executioner 
had  caught  hold  of  the  martyr's  head,  and  was 
holding  it  bent  back,  immovable.  Another,  open- 
ing her  mouth  with  a  pair  of  tongs,  brought  a  cup 
close  to  her  throat,  probably  with  melted  lead. 
Beside  it  was  depicted  another  scene  of  torture. 


38  Julian  the  Apostate. 

The  same  St.  Euphemia  was  hanging  to  a  tree 
by  her  hands,  and  the  executioner  was  scarring 
her  blood-stained  and  almost  childish  limbs  with 
an  instrument  of  torture. 

Under  the  frescoes  was  an  inscription:  "By  the 
blood  of  the  martyrs,  oh  Lord,  thy  church  is  made 
beautiful,  as  by  purple  and  fine  linen." 

On  the  opposite  wall  sinners  were  depicted, 
flaming  in  hell.  Above  was  seen  paradise,  with 
the  just  made  perfect;  one  of  them  was  gathering 
red  fruit  from  the  tree  of  life;  another  was  sing- 
ing, playing  on  a  harp;  and  a  third  was  bending 
down,  leaning  on  a  cloud,  and  watching  the  tor- 
tures of  hell,  with  a  serene  smile. 

Beneath  was  the  inscription:  ''There  shall  be 
weeping  and  gnashing  of  teeth." 

The  sick  from  the  tomb  of  St.  Mamas  entered 
the  church.  There  were  lame,  blind,  cripples, 
paralytics,  children  on  crutches,  looking  like  old 
men,  demoniacs,  idiots,  pale  faces  with  inflamed 
eyelids,  and  with  an  expression  of  dumb  and  hope- 
less submission.  When  the  choir  ceased,  in  the 
silence  was  heard  the  heart-breaking  sighing  of 
the  church  widows,  in  their  black  dresses,  or  the 
rattling  of  the  old  Monk  Pamphilus'  chains. 
During  many  years,  Pamphilus  had  not  exchanged 
a  word  with  any  one,  perpetually  repeating:  "Oh 
Lord!  oh  Lord!  give  me  tears,  give  me  feeling, 
give  me  mortal  memory!" 

The  air  was  hot,  as  in  a  vault, — heavy,  charged 
with  incense,  the  smell  of  wax,  the  smoke  of  lamps, 
the  breath  of  all  those  sick  people. 

That  day  Julian  had  to  read  from  the  Apoc- 
alypse. 


The  Basilica  of  Saint  Maurice.  39 

The  terrible  images  of  the  Kevelation  were 
enumerated. 

There  was  the  pale  horse,  and  his  name  that 
sat  on  him  was  Death.  And  the  nations  of  the 
earth  trembled,  for  the  end  of  all  things  was  at 
hand.  And  the  sun  became  black  as  sackcloth  of 
hair,  and  the  moon  became  as  blood.  And  men 
said  to  the  mountains  and  rocks:  "Fall  on  us,  and 
hide  us  from  the  face  of  him  that  sitteth  on  the 
throne,  and  from  the  wrath  of  the  Lamb.  For  the 
great  day  of  his  wrath  is  come,  and  who  shall  be 
able  to  stand?" 

And  the  prophecy  was  repeated:  "And  in  those 
days  shall  men  seek  death,  and  shall  not  find  it; 
and  shall  desire  to  die,  and  death  shall  flee  from 
them." 

And  a  cry  arose:  "Blessed  are  the  dead!"  And 
there  was  the  bloody  slaughter  of  the  nations. 
And  the  vine  of  the  earth  was  cast  into  the  great 
winepress  of  the  wrath  of  God,  and  the  winepress 
was  trodden,  and  blood  came  out  of  the  winepress, 
even  unto  the  horse  bridles,  by  the  space  of  a 
thousand  and  six  hundred  furlongs. 

And  men  blasphemed  the  God  of  heaven,  be- 
cause of  their  pains  and  of  their  sores,  and  re- 
pented not  of  their  deeds.  And  an  angel  cried 
with  a  loud  voice,  saying:  "If  any  man  worship 
the  beast  of  his  image,  the  same  shall  drink  of  the 
wine  of  the  wrath  of  God,  which  is  poured  out 
without  mixture  into  the  cup  of  his  indignation, 
and  he  shall  be  tormented  with  fire  and  brimstone 
in  the  presence  of  the  holy  angels,  and  in  the 
presence  of  the  Lamb.  And  the  smoke  of  their 
torment  ascendeth  up  for  ever  and  ever;  and  they 


40  Julian  the  Apostate. 

have  no  rest  day  nor  night  who  worship  the  beast 
and  his  image." 

Julian  ceased.  Silence  reigned  in  the  church. 
Heavy  sighs  were  heard  through  the  frightened 
crowd,  and  people  beating  their  heads  against  the 
flagstones  of  the  church,  and  the  rattling  of  the 
idiot's  chains,  as  he  cried:  "Oh  Lord!  oh  Lord! 
give  me  tears,  give  me  feeling,  give  me  mortal 
memory!" 

The  boy  looked  up,  at  the  great  half-circle  of 
mosaic,  between  the  pillars  of  the  arcade.  It  was 
the  Arian  image  of  the  Christ,  a  menacing,  dark, 
thin  face,  with  a  golden  oreole  and  diadem,  already 
grown  like  the  diadems  of  the  Byzantine  emper- 
ors; almost  an  old  man,  with  a  long,  thin  nose,  and 
tightly-pressed  lips.  With  his  right  hand  he  was 
blessing  the  earth,  and  with  his  left  hand  he  held 
a  book,  and  in  the  book  was  written:  "Peace  be 
unto  you.  I  am  the  light  of  the  world."  He  was 
seated  on  a  splendid  throne,  and  a  Eoman  emperor 
(it  seemed  to  Julian  that  it  was  Constantius)  was 
kissing  his  feet. 

But  at  the  same  time,  there,  below,  in  the  twi- 
light, where  was  only  the  light  of  a  small  lamp, 
„  was  seen  a  bas-relief  on  a  sarcophagus  of  the  ear- 
liest Christian  period.  There  were  sculptured 
graceful  little  Nereids,  panthers,  merry  Tritons, 
and  beside  them  Moses,  simple-minded  Jonah  with 
the  whale,  Orpheus  charming  wild  beasts  with  the 
sound  of  his  lyre,  olive  boughs,  doves,  fish,  simple 
symbols  of  pure,  childlike  faith.  And  among 
them  the  Good  Shepherd,  carrying  a  lamb  on  his 
shoulders;  the  lamb  that  had  been  lost  and  was 
found,  the  sinner's  soul.  He  was  simple  and  joy- 
ful, the  bare-footed  youth  with  his  beardless, 


The  Basilica  of  Saint  Maurice.  41 

humble  and  modest  face,  like  the  faces  of  the  poor 
country  people.  He  wore  a  smile  of  heavenly 
gladness.  It  seemed  to  Julian  that  no  one  any 
longer  saw  or  knew  the  Good  Shepherd,  and  with 
that  little  image  of  other  times  was  bound  up  in 
his  mind  a  kind  of  far-away,  childish  dream, 
which  he  sometimes  wished  to  recall,  and  could 
not.  The  youth  with  the  lamb  on  his  shoulders 
looked  at  him  alone,  with  a  mysterious  reproach. 
And  Julian  whispered  the  word  he  had  heard 
from  Mardonius:  "Galilean!" 

At  that  moment  the  oblique  rays  of  the  sun, 
falling  through  the  window,  made  a  tremulous 
pillar  in  the  smoke  of  the  incense;  and  the  pillar, 
slightly  rocking,  seemed  to  rise  into  a  menacing, 
dark  head,  the  head  of  the  Arian  Christ,  sur- 
rounded with  a  golden  oreole.  The  choir  suddenly 
burst  forth  triumphant: 

"And  let  all  flesh  of  man  keep  silent,  and  stand 
in  fear  and  trembling,  and  let  nought  upon  earth 
trust  in  itself.  For  the  King  of  kings  and  Lord 
of  lords  cometh  to  judge  and  to  give  them  for  food 
to  the  faithful.  And  let  the  angels  come  before 
him,  with  every  principality  and  power,  the  many- 
eyed  cherubim  and  the  six-winged  seraphim,  cov- 
ering their  faces,  and  singing:  Alleluia!  Alleluia! 
Alleluia!" 

And  the  chant  swept  like  a  storm  over  the  bent 
heads  of  the  worshippers. 

The  image  of  the  bare-footed  youth,  the  Good 
Shepherd,  departed  to  an  immeasurable  distance, 
but  still  watched  Julian  reproachfully,  and  the 
boy's  heart  was  full,  not  of  reverence,  but  of  intol- 
erable fear  before  that  secret,  which  he  was  not 
destined  to  penetrate  his  whole  life  long. 


CHAPTER  V. 
THE  SHRINE  OF  VENUS. 

From  the  Arian  basilica,  Julian  returned  to 
Maeellum,  taking  with  him  his  model  trireme, 
completed,  and  carefully  wrapped  up,  and  unseen 
by  anyone, — Eutropius  had  gone  away  for  several 
days, — slipped  out  through  the  gates  of  the  for- 
tress, and  ran  past  the  church  of  St.  Maurice,  to 
the  neighboring  shrine  of  Aphrodite. 

The  sacred  grove  of  the  goddess  bordered  on 
the  graveyard  of  the  Christian  church.  Hostility 
and  quarrels,  even  lawsuits  between  the  two  tem- 
ples never  ceased.  The  Christians  demanded  the 
destruction  of  the  unclean  shrine;  the  priest 
Olympiodorus  made  complaints  against  the 
church  watchmen:  by  night  they  secretly  broke 
the  immemorial  cypresses  of  the  sacramental 
grove,  and  dug  graves  for  Christian  dead  in  the 
sacred  soil  of  Aphrodite. 

Julian  entered  the  grove.  The  warm  air  encir- 
cled him.  The  heat  of  midday  sucked  big  drops 
of  resin  from  the  grey,  gnarled  roots  of  the  black 
cypresses.  Julian  felt  as  though  the  twilight  of 
the  grove  was  full  of  the  inspiration  of  Aphrodite. 

Statues  gleamed  white  among  the  trees.  Here 
was  Eros,  drawing  his  bow.  Probably  one  of  the 
church  watchmen,  in  wrath  against  the  idol,  had 
broken  off  the  marble  bow.  Along  with  the  god's 
two  pretty  arms,  Love's  weapon  lay  in  the  grass, 
at  the  foot  of  the  statue.  But  the  armless  boy, 
42 


The  Shrine  of  Venus.  43 

planting  one  plump  leg  in  front  of  him,  was  still 
aiming  with  a  wanton  smile. 

Julian  entered  the  house  of  the  priest  Olym- 
piodorus.  The  rooms  were  tiny,  narrow,  almost 
playthings,  but  cozy.  There  was  no  luxury,  but 
rather  poverty.  There  were  neither  carpets  nor 
plate.  Plain  stone  floors,  wooden  furniture,  cheap 
amphoras  of  baked  clay.  But  in  every  trifle  there 
was  distinction.  The  handle  of  a  simple  kitchen 
lamp  was  a  figure  of  Poseidon  with  his  trident. 
It  was  antique,  wonderful  work.  Sometimes 
Julian  gazed  long  in  ecstasy  at  the  graceful  form 
of  a  clay  vase  of  cheap  olive  oil.  Everywhere  on 
the  walls  bright  frescoes  were  seen:  here  the 
Xereids,  seated  on  their  scaly  water-horses;  there 
a  young  goddess  dancing,  in  a  long  robe  with 
curved  and  swelling  folds. 

Everything  in  the  little  house  was  smiling, 
flooded  with  sunlight.  The  Nereids  on  the  walls 
were  smiling,  and  the  dancing  goddesses,  and  the 
Tritons,  even  the  scaly  sea-horses,  and  the  bronze 
Poseidon  on  the  handle  of  the  lamp.  And  the 
same  gayety  was  on  the  faces  of  the  dwellers  in 
the  house.  They  were  born  gay.  They  did  not 
know  how  to  be  unlovely,  or  angry,  or  gloomy. 
They  were  satisfied  with  a  dozen  or  two  of  tasty 
olives,  some  white  wheaten  bread,  a  bunch  or  two 
of  grapes,  some  cups  of  wine,  mixed  with  water, — 
this  was  a  regular  feast  for  them.  And  Diophane, 
the  wife  of  Olympiodorus,  would  hang  a  wreath 
of  laurels  in  the  doorway  in  sign  of  the  festival. 

Julian  entered  the  little  garden  of  the  Atrium. 
Under  the  open  sky  was  a  fountain,  and  beside  it, 
among  narcissus,  acanthus,  tulips  and  myrtle, 
stood  a  little  bronze  image  of  Hermes,  winged, 


44  Julian  the  Apostate. 

laughing,  like  everything  in  the  house,  ready  to 
spread  his  wings  and  fly  away.  Over  the  flower- 
beds, in  the  sun,  hovered  butterflies  and  bees. 

Under  the  light  shadow  of  the  portico  in  the 
courtyard,  Olympiodorus  and  his  seventeen-year- 
old  daughter  Amaryllis  were  playing  the  graceful 
Athenian  game  of  cottabus.  On  a  little  column, 
sunk  into  the  ground,  swayed  a  transverse  cross- 
beam, like  the  scale-beam  of  a  balance.  At  each 
end  of  it  were  hung  small  cups.  Under  each  was 
placed  a  vessel  of  water,  with  a  little  bronze  statu- 
ette in  it.  The  game  was  to  splash  wine  out  of  a 
cup,  from  a  certain  distance,  so  that  it  should  fall 
in  one  of  the  scales,  which  then  tipped  down,  and 
struck  the  bronze  statuette. 

"Play,  play.    It  is  your  turn!"  cried  Amaryllis. 

"One,  two,  three!" 

Olympiodorus  splashed  the  wine,  but  missed. 
He  laughed  a  childlike  laugh;  it  was  strange  to 
see  a  full-grown  man,  with  grey  streaks  in  his 
hair,  carried  away  by  a  game,  like  a  child. 

The  girl,  with  a  charming  gesture  of  her  bare 
arm,  throwing  back  the  purple  tunic,  splashed  the 
wine,  and  the  kottabos  struck  the  statuette,  and 
rang. 

Amaryllis  clapped  her  hands,  and  laughed. 

Suddenly  they  saw  Julian  in  the  doorway. 

They  all  began  to  kiss  him,  and  embrace  him. 
Amaryllis  cried: 

"Diophane,  where  are  you?  Look  at  the  guest 
who  has  come.  Quick,  quick!" 

Diophane  ran  in  from  the  kitchen. 

"Julian,  my  beloved  boy!  You  look  as  if  you 
had  grown  thin.  We  have  not  seen  you  for  a  long 
time." 


The  Shrine  of  Venus.  45 

And  she  cried  out,  radiant  with  pleasure: 

"Well,  make  merry,  my  children.  To-day  we 
shall  have  a  real  feast.  I  shall  make  garlands  of 
fresh  roses,  and  roast  three  whole  perch,  and  make 
sweet  ginger  pastry!" 

At  that  moment,  a  young  slave-girl  came  up  and 
whispered  to  Olympiodorus  that  a  rich  patrician 
lady  from  Cesarea  wished  to  see  him,  as  priest  of 
Aphrodite.  He  went  out. 

Julian  and  Amaryllis  were  left  to  play  kottabos. 

Then  noiselessly  on  the  threshold  appeared  a 
ten-year-old,  slender,  pale,  fair-haired  girl, — 
Psyche,  the  younger  daughter  of  Olympiodorus. 
She  had  light  blue,  large,  sad  eyes.  Alone  of  the 
whole  household  she  seemed  to  Olympiodorus  not 
consecrated  to  Aphrodite,  a  stranger  to  the  gen- 
eral gladness.  She  lived  a  life  apart,  remained 
pensive,  when  the  others  laughed,  and  no  one  knew 
the  cause  of  her  sorrows  and  her  joys.  Her  father 
considered  her  a  pitiful  creature,  -incurably  ailing, 
tainted  by  the  evil  eye,  and  the  charms  of  his 
everlasting  foes,  the  Galileans.  They  took  his 
child  in  revenge.  Black-curled  Amaryllis  was 
Olympiodorus'  favorite  daughter.  But  her  mother 
secretly  spoiled  Psyche,  and  loved  her  sickly  child 
with  a  jealous  passion,  not  understanding  her 
inner  life. 

Psyche,  unknown  to  her  father,  went  to  the 
basilica  of  Saint  Maurice. 

Neither  the  caresses  of  her  mother,  nor  her 
prayers,  or  threats  were  of  any  avail. 

The  priest  in  despair  shunned  Psyche.  When 
she  was  mentioned,  his  face  clouded  over,  and  his 
expression  became  unkind.  He  asserted  that, 
through  his  daughter's  impiety,  the  vineyard  for- 


46  Julian  the  Apostate. 

merly  blessed  by  Aphrodite,  began  to  bear  less 
fruit,,  that  the  little  cross  of  gold,  which  the  girl 
wore  on  her  breast,  was  enough  to  pollute  the 
temple  of  Aphrodite. 

"Why  do  you  go  to  the  church?"  Julian  asked 
her  once. 

"I  do  not  know.  It  is  pleasant  there.  Have 
you  seen  the  Good  Shepherd?" 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  him.  The  Galilean!  Where 
did  you  learn  about  him?" 

"The  old  woman  Theodyle  told  me.  Since  then, 
I  have  gone  to  the  church.  And  why  is  it,  tell 
me,  Julian,  why  do  they  all  hate  the  Good  Shep- 
herd so?" 

Olympiodorus  returned  triumphant,  and  told 
of  his  talk  with  the  patrician  lady.  She  was  a 
young,  distinguished  girl.  Her  betrothed  had 
ceased  to  love  her.  She  thought  that  he  was  be- 
witched by  the  charms  of  a  rival.  She  had  gone 
many  time  to  the  Christian  church,  fervently 
praying  at  the'  tomb  of  Saint  Mamas.  Neither 
fasts,  nor  vigils,  nor  prayers  availed.  "As  if  the 
Christians  can  help  you!"  exclaimed  Olympio- 
dorus, contemptuously,  and  glanced  under  his  knit 
brows  at  Psyche,  who  was  listening  attentively. 
"And  so  the  Christian  came  to  me.  Aphrodite 
will  heal  her." 

He  triumphantly  showed  two  white  doves  tied 
together.  The  Christian  lady  had  asked  him  to 
offer  them  as  a  sacrifice  to  the  goddess  of  love. 

Amaryllis,  taking  the  doves  in  her  hands,  kissed 
their  soft  red  toes,  and  cried  that  it  was  a  pity  to 
kill  them. 

"Father,  let  us  offer  them,  but  without  killing 
them." 


The  Shrine  of  Venus.  47 

"How?  Can  there  be  an  offering  without 
blood?" 

"Let  us  do  this.  Let  us  set  them  free!  They 
will  fly  straight  up  to  heaven,  to  the  throne  of 
Aphrodite.  Is  it  not  true  the  goddess  is  there,  in 
the  sky?  She  will  take  them  to  her.  Allow  me, 
please,  dearest!" 

Amaryllis  kissed  him  so  tenderly  that  he  had 
%ot  the  courage  to  refuse. 

Then  the  girl  loosed  the  doves,  and  set  them 
free.  They  fluttered  their  white  wings  with  a 
joyful  rustle,  and  flew  up  into  the  sky,  to  the 
throne  of  Aphrodite.  Shading  his  eyes  with  his 
hands,  the  priest  watched  the  Christian's  offering 
disappear  in  the  blue.  And  Amaryllis  jumped 
with  joy,  and  clapped  her  hands: 

"Aphrodite!  Aphrodite!  Accept  this  bloodless 
sacrifice!" 

Olympiodorus  went  out.  Julian  triumphantly 
and  shyly  approached  Amaryllis.  His  voice 
trembled,  when  he  uttered  the  girl's  name  in  a 
low  voice,  and  his  cheeks  grew  red. 

"Amaryllis,  I  have  brought  you  — " 

"Yes,  I  wanted  to  ask  long  ago  what  you  had 
with  you?" 

"It  is  a  trireme." 

"A  trireme?  What  kind?  What  for?  What 
do  you  say?" 

"A  real  Liburnian  one!" 

He  began  rapidly  to  unwrap  his  present,  and 
suddenly  felt  an  indefinable  shame  and  shyness. 

Amaryllis  watched  him,  bewildered. 

He  grew  completely  confused,  and  looked  at  her 
silently,  entreatingly,  launching  the  toy  ship  in 
the  basin  of  the  fountain. 


48  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"Do  not  think,  Amaryllis.  It  is  a  trireme,  a  real 
one,  with  sails.  You  see,  it  floats,  and  there  is  a 
rudder." 

But  Amaryllis  laughed  aloud  at  his  present. 

"How  odd  you  are!  What  am  I  to  do  with  a 
trireme?  You  cannot  go  far  in  her!  That  is  a 
ship  for  mice  or  cicadas!  Better  give  it  to  Psyche, 
she  will  be  glad.  You  see  how  hungrily  she  is 
watching!"  • 

Julian  was  deeply  hurt.  He  tried  to  assume  an 
indifferent  expression,  but  felt  that  tears  were 
near,  that  his  throat  was  contracted,  that  his  lips 
trembled  and  pouted.  He  made  a  desperate  effort, 
restrained  his  tears,  and  said: 

"I  see,  you  do  not  understand  anything." 

He  thought  a  moment,  and  added : 

"You  do  not  understand  anything  about  art." 

But  Amaryllis  only  laughed  the  louder. 

To  add  to  the  insult,  she  was  called  away  to 
meet  her  betrothed.  He  was  a  rich  merchant  of 
Samos.  He  scented  himself  too  much,  dressed 
without  taste,  and  made  grammatical  blunders  in 
conversation.  Julian  detested  him.  The  whole 
house  was  overcast  for  him,  and  its  gayety  fled 
when  he  learned  that"  the  Samian  had  come. 

From  the  next  room  came  the  joyful  twittering 
of  Amaryllis,  and  the  voice  of  her  betrothed. 

Julian  seized  his  beloved  Liburnian  trireme, 
which  had  cost  him  such  infinite  pains,  broke  the 
mast,  tore  up  the  sail,  tangled  the  rigging,  broke 
and  disfigured  the  hull,  without  saying  a  word, 
with  silent  detestation,  to  the  no  small  astonish- 
ment of  Psyche. 

Amaryllis  returned.  On  her  face  were  the 
traces  of  another's  happiness,  the  excess  of  life, 


The  Shrine  of  Venus.  40 

the  immeasurable  joy  of  love,  which  makes  young 
girls  feel  the  need  of  kissing  and  embracing  some 
one. 

"Julian,  forgive  me.  I  have  offended  you. 
Well,  forgive  me,  dear.  You  see  how  I  love  you, 
I  love  you." 

And  before  he  could  come  to  himself,  Ama- 
ryllis, throwing  back  her  tunic,  flung  her  bare, 
fresh  arms  around  his  neck.  And  his  heart  ceased 
beating  from  the  sweetness  of  passion:  he  saw, 
nearer  him  than  he  had  ever  seen  them,  those  big, 
soft,  dark  eyes.  A  perfume  breathed  from  her, 
strong  as  from  flowers,  when  you  press  your  face 
into  a  bouquet.  The  boy's  head  was  turned.  She 
pressed  his  body  to  her  supple  young  breast.  He 
closed  his  eyes,  and  felt  on  his  lips  a  lingering, 
tormenting  kiss. 

"Amaryllis!    Amaryllis!    Where  are  you?" 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  Samian.  Julian  pushed 
the  girl  away  from  him  with  all  his  strength.  His 
heart  was  sore  with  pain  and  hate. 

He  cried  out:  "Let  me  alone,  leave  me!"  tore 
himself  away,  and  fled. 

"Julian!    Julian!" 

Unheeding,  he  ran  from  the  house,  through  the 
vineyard,  through  the  cypress  grove,  and  only 
stopped  at  the  temple  of  Aphrodite. 

He  heard  them  calling  him,  he  heard  Dio- 
phane's  gay  voice,  announcing  that  the  ginger 
pastry  was  ready,  and  did  not  answer.  They  began 
to  look  for  him.  He  hid  in  the  laurel  bushes  at  the 
pedestal  of  Eros,  and  waited.  They  thought  he 
had  run  back  to  Macellum.  The  household  had 
grown  used  to  his  sombre  strangeness. 

When  all  had  grown  quiet,  he  left  his  hiding- 


50  Julian  the  Apostate. 

place,  and  looked  at  the  temple  of  the  goddess  of 
love. 

The  temple  stood  on  a  considerable  hillock, 
open  on  all  sides. 

The  white  marble  of  the  Ionic  columns,  flooded 
with  sunlight,  bathed  voluptuously  in  the  azure, 
and  the  dark,  warm  blue  rejoiced,  embracing  the 
marble,  cold  and  white  as  snoAV.  At  either  corner, 
the  pediment  was  crowned  with  two  acroteres,  in 
the  form  of  griffons.  With  uplifted  claws,  with 
open  eagle  beaks,  with  round,  woman's  breasts, 
they  stood  out,  firm  outlines  against  the  blue 
heavens. 

Julian  ascended  the  steps  to  the  portico,  softly 
opened  the  unfastened  door  of  bronze,  and  en- 
tered the  interior  of  the  shrine,  the  sacred  naos. 

Coolness  and  stillness  breathed  around  him. 

The  declining  sun  still  lighted  the  upper  row 
of  capitols,  with  their  fine  carving,  like  ringlets. 
Below  was  twilight.  From  a  tripod  came  the 
scent  of  the  burned  ashes  of  myrrh. 

Julian  shyly  raised  his  eyes,  pressing  close  to 
the  wall,  and  holding  his  breath.  He  was  struck 
dumb. 

It  was  she.  Under  the  open  sky  stood  white 
Aphrodite  Anadyomene,  in  the  midst  of  the 
temple,  goddess  new-born  from  the  foam,  in  all 
her  unshamed  beauty  of  nakedness.  The  god- 
dess looked  on  heaven  and  earth  with  a  smile, 
wondering  at  the  loveliness  of  the  world,  not 
knowing  yet  that  it  was  her  own  loveliness, 
reflected  in  heaven  and  earth,  as  in  everlasting 
mirrors.  The  touch  of  human  garments  had  not 
defiled  her.  Thus  stood  she  there,  perfect  and 


The  Shrine  of  Venus.  51 

naked,  like  that  cloudless  sky  of  almost  menacing 
blue  above  her  head. 

Julian  gazed  insatiate.  Time  stood  still.  Sud- 
denly he  felt  a  throb  of  reverence  run  through  his 
body.  The  boy,  in  his  dark,  monk's  gown,  fell  on 
his  knees  before  Aphrodite,  with  face  uplifted, 
pressing  his  hands  to  his  heart. 

Afterward,  still  as  distantly,  and  as  shyly,  he 
sat  on  the  pedestal  of  a  column,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
her,  and  his  cheek  pressed  to  the  cold  marble. 
The  stillness  entered  his  soul.  He  sank  into  sleep. 
But  even  in  dream,  he  felt  her  presence.  She 
drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  him.  Her  soft,  white 
arms  encircled  his  neck.  The  boy  gave  himself  up 
with  a  passionless  smile  to  her  passionless  embrace. 
The  coldness  of  the  marble  entered  into  the  deeps 
of  his  heart.  This  holy  embrace  was  not  like  the 
hot,  painfully  passionate  embrace  of  Amaryllis. 
His  soul  was  set  free  from  earthly  love.  This  was 
the  last  rest,  like  the  ambrosial  nights  of  Homer, 
like  the  sweet  repose  of  death. 


When  he  awoke,  it  was  dark.  Stars  were  shi- 
ning in  the  square  of  open  sky.  The  sickle  of  the 
moon  cast  a  gleam  on  Aphrodite's  head. 

Julian  arose.  Olympiodorus  must  have  come, 
but  had  not  noticed  the  boy;  or  had  not  wished 
to  disturb  him,  guessing  his  grief.  On  the  bronze 
tripod,  fresh  coals  were  glowing  red,  and  a  thread 
of  scented  smoke  rose  before  the  image  of  the 
goddess. 

Julian  approached  with  a  glad  smile,  and  from 
the  vase  of  chrysolite,  between  the  feet  of  the 
tripod,  took  a  few  grains  of  scented  resin,  and 


52  Julian  the  Apostate. 

threw  them  on  the  coals  of  the  altar.  The  smoke 
rose  thicker. 

And  a  rosy  gleam  of  fire  flamed  up,  like  a  light 
flush  of  life  on  the  goddess's  face,  mingling  with 
the  gleam  of  the  new-born  moon. 

Pure  Aphrodite;  as  it  were  Urania,  descended 
from  the  stars  to  the  earth. 

Julian  bowed  down  and  kissed  the  feet  of  the 
image. 

He  prayed  to  her: 

"Aphrodite!  Aphrodite!  I  will  be  thine  for 
ever!" 

And  hot  tears  fell  on  the  cold  marble  feet  of  the 
statue. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
CALLUS  AND  THE  DANCING  GIRL. 

In  one  of  the  poor  and  dirty  quarters  of  Syrian 
Seleucia,  on  the  shore  of  the  Mediterranean  sea, 
the  trade  haven  of  Antioch,  the  great,  narrow, 
crooked  streets  issued  on  a  square  by  the  wharves. 
The  sea  was  invisible  from  the  forest  of  masts  and 
rigging. 

The  houses  consisted  of  disordered  frames 
heaped  together,  and  smeared  with  clay.  •  On  the 
street  side,  they  were  sometimes  covered  with  a 
tattered  carpet,  looking  like  dirty  rags,  or  matting. 
In  all  these  corners,  frames,  by-streets  with  their 
heavy  smell  of  washing,  launderies,  and  work- 
men's baths,  a  variegated,  beggarly,  and  hungry 
mob  perpetually  swarmed. 


Gallus  and  the  Dancing  Girl.  53 

The  sun  was  setting  after  burning  the  earth 
dry.  The  twilight  descended  on  swift  wings.  The 
heat,  dust,  and  glow  still  hung  heavy  over  the  city. 
From  the  market  came  a  suffocating  smell  of  meat 
and  vegetables,  that  had  lain  all  day  in  the  heat. 
Half-naked  slaves  were  carrying  bales  from  the 
ships  along  the  gangway-planks.  One  side  of 
their  heads  was  shaven.  Red  weals  from  blows 
were  seen  through  their  rags.  On  the  faces  of 
many  were  great  scars,  branded  with  hot  irons. 
Some  times  there  were  the  two  letters,  C  and  F, 
meaning  "Cave  furem,"  "Beware  of  the  thief." 

Fires  were  being  lit.  In  spite  of  the  approach 
of  night,  the  stir  and  talk  in  the  narrow  by-streets 
did  not  diminish.  From  a  neighboring  smithy 
were  heard  the  ear-splitting  blows  of  a  hammer 
on  sheet-iron;  the  glow  of  the  furnace  flamed,  the 
black  smoke  rolled  upward.  Alongside  bakers, 
covered  from  head  to  foot  with  the  white  dust  of 
flour,  with  red  eyelids,  inflamed  by  the  heat,  were 
setting  bread  in  the  ovens.  A  shoemaker,  with  an. 
open  shop-front,  from  which  came  a  smell  of  cob- 
bler's wax  and  leather,  was  stitching  shoes  by  the 
light  of  a  little  lamp,  sitting  on  his  haunches,  and 
with  full  throat  singing  a  song  in  a  barbarian 
tongue.  From  one  room  to  another,  across  a  by- 
street, two  old  women,  regular  witches,  with  dis- 
heveled grey  hair,  were  crying  out  and  abusing 
each  other,  stretching  out  their  hands  to  scratch 
each  other,  and  all  on  account  of  a  cord  on  which 
they  hung  rags  to  dry.  And  below,  a  merchant, 
hurrying  from  afar,  on  a  bony,  broken-down  nag, 
to  a  market  which  was  to  take  place  on  the  mor- 
row, was  carrying  a  whole  mountain  of  stale  fish 
in  his  wicker  panniers.  The  passers-by  turned  and 


54  Julian  the  Apostate. 

cursed  at  the  intolerable  stench.  A  fat-cheeked 
little  Jew,  with  ruddy  curls,  was  hammering  a 
huge  bronze  dish,  delighted  with  the  deafening 
noise.  Other  children,  small,  innumerable,  born 
and  dying  every  day  in  hundreds  in  that  nest  of 
paupers,  rolled  in  the  dust,  squeaking  like  sucking 
pigs,  round  a  pool  where  were  pieces  of  orange- 
peel  and  egg-shell.  In  even  darker  and  more  sus- 
picious by-streets,  where  lived  the  petty  thieves, 
where  a  smell  of  dampness  and  sour  wine  rose 
from  the  taverns,  sailors  from  the  ends  of  the 
earth  went  arm  in  arm,  shouting  out  drunken 
songs.  Over  the  doors  of  a  lupanarium  was  hung 
a  lamp  with  a  carven  image,  dedicated  to  the 
god  Priapus;  and  when  the  curtain  in  the  doorway 
was  raised,  a  crowded  row  of  little  rooms,  like 
stalls,  were  seen  within.  Above  each  was  a  sign 
with  a  price.  In  the  breathless  darkness  the 
naked  bodies  of  women  gleamed  white. 

And  above  all  this  noise  and  talk,  over  all  this 
human  filth  and  poverty,  was  heard  the  distant 
sigh  of  the  breakers,  the  murmur  of  the  invisible, 
everlasting  sea. 

At  the  very  windows  of  an  underground  kit- 
chen, kept  by  a  Phoenician  merchant,  beggars 
were  playing  at  knuckle-bones,  and  chattering. 
The  fumes  of  stewing  fat  spread  from  the  kitchen, 
in  thick  clouds  with  a  smell  of  pastry  and  cooked 
game.  The  hungry  knaves  inhaled  it,  closing 
their  eyes  in  delight. 

A  Christian,  a  dyer  of  purple,  dismissed  from  a 
rich  Tyrian  factory  for  theft,  who  was  hungrily 
sucking  a  leaf  of  mallow,  thrown  out  by  the  cook, 
spoke: 

."And  good  people,  what  is  doing  in  Antioch — 


Callus  and  the  Dancing  Girl.  55 

it  is  best  not  to  speak  about  it,  especially  at  night- 
fall! The  other  day,  the  starving  people  pulled 
the  prefect  Theophilus  to  pieces.  And  what  for, 
God  only  knows!  When  they  had  done  with  him, 
they  remembered  that  the  poor  fellow  was  a  good 
sort,  and  an  honest  man.  They  say  Caesar  set  the 
mob  on  him." 

Then  a  broken-down  old  man,  a  very  skilful 
pickpocket,  began: 

"I  saw  Caesar  once.  I  don't  know.  I  liked  him. 
Young  he  was,  with  hair  as  white  as  flax.  A  fat 
face,  but  good-natured.  But  how  many  murders, 
oh  Lord,  how  many  murders!  Revolution!  Peo- 
ple go  through  the  streets  in  fear." 

"All  that  is  not  Caesar  but  his  wife,  Constan- 
tina:  she  is  a  witch!" 

Some  strangers  came  up  to  the  speakers,  as  if 
they  wished  to  take  part  in  the  conversation.  If 
the  light  from  the  kitchen  nad  been  stronger,  it 
might  have  been  seen  that  their  faces  were  painted, 
that  their  clothing  was  tattered  and  torn  artifici- 
ally, like  that  of  beggars  on  the  stage.  In  spite  of 
his  rags,  the  hands  of  the  dirtiest  were  white  and 
fine,  with  pink,  trim  nails.  One  of  them  said  to 
his  companions,  speaking  low,  close  to  his  ear: 

"Listen,  listen,  Agamemnon:  they  are  talking 
about  Caesar  here,  too." 

The  stranger  whom  they  called  Agamemnon 
seemed  to  be  drunk.  He  staggered.  His  beard, 
unnaturally  thick  and  long,  made  him  look  like  a 
fantastic  brigand.  But  his  eyes  were  good-natured, 
bright-blue,  and  even  childish.  His  companions 
stopped  him  with  a  frightened  whisper: 

"Take  care." 


56  Julian  the  Apostate. 

The  pickpocket  continued  in  a  whining  voice, 
as  if  he  was  singing: 

"No,  but  tell  me,  men  and  brothers,  is  it  right? 
Bread  gets  dearer  every  day.  People  die  like 
flies.  And  suddenly — No,  only  think  of  it,  is 
that  right?  A  day  or  two  ago,  a  big,  three- 
masted  ship  came  from  Egypt.  Everybody  was 
delighted.  We  thought  it  was  bread.  Caesar,  they 
said,  wrote  for  it,  to  feed  the  people.  And  what 
was  it,  what  was  it,  good  people?  Dust  from 
Alexandria,  a  special  kind  of  red,  Libyan  dust,  to 
rub  the  athletes  with.  Dust,  instead  of  bread. 
Well,  is  that  right?"  he  concluded,  making  a  ges- 
ture of  dissatisfaction  with  his  deft,  thievish 
fingers. 

Agamemnon  nudged  his  companion. 

"Quick!  ask  his  name!  ask  his  name!" 

"Gently,  not  now;  later." 

A  wool-carder  remarked: 

"We  have  everything  quiet  enough  in  Seleucia. 
But  in  Antioch,  treachery,  accusations,  spying!" 

The  dyer,  who  had  sucked  the  mallow-leaf  for 
the  last  time,  and  thrown  it  away,  convinced  that 
it*  had  lost  the  last  vestige  of  taste,  muttered 
gloomily  under  his  breath: 

"Well,  please  God,  human  flesh  and  blood  will 
soon  be  cheaper  than  bread  and  wine." 

The  wool-carder,  a  terrible  drunkard  and  phil- 
osopher, sighed  heavily: 

"Oh-ho-ho!  We  wretched  mortals!  The  blessed 
Olympians  play  with  us  as  if  we  were  balls.  Now 
to  the  right,  now  to  the  left,  now  up,  now  down: 
men  weep,  but  the  gods  laugh!" 

Agamemnon's  companion  managed  to  mix  in 
the  conversation,  and  deftly,  as  if  he  hardly  cared, 


Callus  and 'the  Dancing  Girl.  57 

asked  their  names.  He  even  managed  to  overhear 
what  the  wandering  shoemaker  said  in  a  whisper 
to  the  wool-carder,  about  a  plot  against  Caesar's 
life,  among  the  Pretorian  soldiers. 

Then  going  a  few  steps  backward,  he  wrote  the 
names  of  the  speakers  with  an  elegant  stylus  on 
wax  tablets,  where  many  names  were  already 
recorded. 

At  this  moment  there  came  from  the  market- 
square  the  hoarse,  rumbling  sounds  of  a  hydraulic 
organ,  like  the  cry  of  some  subterranean  monster, 
something  between  laughter  and  crying.  A  blind 
Christian  slave  was  paid  four  oboli  a  day  to  pump 
water  to  produce  these  strange  and  weird  sounds. 

Agamemnon  dragged  his  companions  to  the 
booth,  beside  which  stood  the  organ;  it  was  cov- 
ered, like  a  tent,  with  blue  cloth,  on  which  were 
silver  stars.  A  lamp  illuminated  a  blackboard 
serving  as  a  notice-board  with  a  program  of  the 
representation,  written  in  chalk,  in  Syrian  and 
Greek. 

Inside,  it  was  breathless.  It  smelt  of  garlic  and 
smoking  oil-lamps.  To  supplement  the  organ, 
two  piercing  flutes  were  shrilling,  and  a  black 
Ethiopian  was  hammering  a  tambourine,  and  turn- 
ing up  the  white  of  his  eyes. 

A  dancer  leaped  and  twisted  on  a  rope,  clapping 
his  hands  in  time  to  the  music.  He  sang  a  fash- 
ionable song. 

The  lean,  snub-nosed  buffon,  the  cinaedus,  was 
old,  hideous,  and  grey.  Drops  of  sweat  streamed 
from  his  shaven  forehead,  mixed  with  rouge.  His 
wrinkles,  plastered  with  powder,  were  like  crevices 
in  a  wall,  where  the  lime  is  melted  by  the  rain. 

When  he  disappeared,  the  organ  and  the  flutes 


58  Julian  the  Apostate. 

stopped.  A  fifteen-year-old  girl  came  out  on  the 
stage  to  perform  the  famous  "cordax,"  a  dance 
that  all  the  people  were  mad  about.  The  fathers 
of  the  church  fulminated  against  it,  the  Eoman 
laws  forbade  it,  but  all  in  vain.  The  cordax  was 
danced  everywhere,  by  poor  and  rich,  the  wives 
of  senators  and  street-dancing  girls  alike. 

Agamemnon  cried  out  in  ecstasy: 

"What  a  girl!" 

Thanks  to  the  fists  of  his  companions,  he  strug- 
gled through  to  the  front  row. 

The  lean,  dusky  body  of  the  Nubian  girl  was 
encircled  round  the  middle  only  by  a  gauze-like, 
rose-colored  fabric.  Her  hair  lay  thickly  on  her 
head,  in  glossy  black  curls,  after  the  manner  of 
the  women  of  Ethiopia.  The  girl's  face  was  of  the 
purest  Egyptian  type,  recalling  the  face  of  the 
sphinx. 

The  crotalistria  began  to  dance  languidly  and. 
carelessly  as  though  she  were  weary.  Above  her 
head,  the  bronze  cymbals,  the  crotalia,  tinkled 
almost  inaudibly  in  her  finely-shaped  hands. 

Then  her  movements  grew  quicker,  and  sud- 
denly from  beneath  her  long  lashes,  her  yellowish 
eyes  flashed,  transparent  and  fierce  like  the  eyes 
of  a  wild  beast.  She  straightened  herself,  and  the 
bronze  crotalia  rang  with  a  penetrating  note,  so 
keen  and  clear  that  the  whole  crowd  started, 
breathless. 

Then  the  girl  began  to  turn,  swift,  slender, 
supple  as  a  snake.  Her  nostrils  distended.  A 
strange  cry  broke  from  her  lips.  At  every  swift 
movement,  her  small,  dark  breasts,  girt  with  a 
green  silk  net,  trembled  like  two  ripe  fruit  in  the 


Gallus  and  the  Dancing  Girl.  59 

wind,  and  the  rouge  with  which  they  were  tipped 
shone  red  through  the  net. 

The  crowd  cried  out  with  delight.  Agamem- 
non was  beside  himself.  His  companions  held  him 
by  the  arms. 

Suddenly  the  girl  stopped,  as  if  her  strength 
had  failed  her.  A  light  shiver  ran  along  her 
dusky  body  from  head  to  foot.  Silence  followed. 
The  Nubian's  head  was  thrown  back,  and  the  cym- 
bals above  it  vibrated  with  an  almost  intangible, 
dying  sound,  like  the  wings  of  a  captive  butterfly. 
Her  yellow  eyes  grew  dim.  But  in  their  very 
depths  gleamed  two  sparks.  Her  face  was  set  and 
menacing.  And  on  her  thick,  red  lips,  the  lips  of 
the  sphinx,  a  faint  smile  trembled.  And  the 
bronze  cymbals  died  into  stillness. 

The  crowd  cried  out  and  applauded  so  loudly 
that  the  blue  stuff  with  silver  stars  fluttered  like 
a  sail  in  a  storm,  and  the  master  of  the  booth 
thought  it  would  fall. 

His  companions  could  no  longer  restrain  Aga- 
memnon. He  threw  himself  on  the  stage,  raising 
the  curtain,  and  reached  the  platform. 

His  companions  whispered  to  him: 

"Wait!  It  could  be  done  to-morrow.  Now 
they  might  — " 

Agamemnon  interrupted. 

"Not  to-morrow, — now!" 

He  went  to  the  master  of  the  booth,  the  sly 
Greek  Myrmex,  and  hastily,  almost  without  ex- 
planation, poured  a  heap  of  gold  coins  into  the 
lap  of  his  tunic. 

"The  crotalistria  is  your  slave?" 

"Yes;  what  desires  my  master?" 

Myrmex  looked  first  at  the  torn  dress  which 


60  Julian  the  Apostate. 

Agamemnon  wore,  and  then,  with  astonishment, 
at  the  gold. 

"What  is  your  name,  girl?" 

"Phyllis." 

To  her  also  he  gave  money,  without  counting  it. 
The  Greek  whispered  something  in  Phyllis'  ear. 
She  threw  the  ringing  coins  into  the  air,  and 
caught  them  again  in  her  palm,  and  laughing, 
turned  her  gleaming  golden-glinting,  wild  eyes  on 
Agamemnon.  He  spoke: 

"Come  with  me!" 

Phyllis  cast  a  dark  cloak  over  her  bare,  dusky 
shoulders,  and  glided  out  beside  him  into  the 
street. 

She  asked  submissively: 

"Where?" 

"I  do  not  know." 

"To  your  house?" 

"Impossible.    I  live  in  Antioch." 

"And  I  only  came  in  the  ship  to-day,  and  I 
know  nothing  of  this  city." 

"What  are  we  to  do?" 

"Wait.  Just  a  little  while  ago,  I  saw  an  un- 
closed temple  of  Priapus  in  the  next  by-street. 
Let  us  go  there." 

Phyllis  drew  him  along,  laughing.  His  com- 
panions wished  to  follow.  He  said: 

"Do  not  come.    Stay  here." 

"Take  care!  At  least  take  a  weapon.  In  this 
quarter  it  is  dangerous." 

And  drawing  a  short  sword,  like  a  dagger,  from 
under  his  cloak,  one  of  his  companions  gave  it  to 
him,  respectfully.  The  handle  was  splendidly 
inlaid. 

Stumbling  through  the  darkness,  Agamemnon 


Galhis  and  the  Dancing  Girl.  61 

and  Phyllis  entered  a  dark  side-street,  not  far 
from  the  market. 

"Here!  here!  do  not  fear;  go  in." 

They  entered  the  porch  of  the  small,  deserted 
temple.  A  hanging  lamp  faintly  illumined  the 
coarse  old  columns. 

"Close  the  door!" 

Just  then,  from  the  interior  of  the  temple,  came 
a  piercing,  cackling,  and  a  weird  flutter  of  white 
wings,  raising  such  a  wind  that  the  lamp  almost 
went  out. 

Agamemnon  let  Phyllis  go,  and  stammered:     • 

"What  is  that?" 

White  forms  glimmered  in  the  darkness,  like 
ghosts.  Agamemnon,  completely  frightened, 
crossed  himself  involuntarily. 

"What  is  it?  The  power  of  the  cross  be 
over  us!" 

At  that  moment  something  pinched  his  foot 
sharply.  He  cried  out  with  fright  and  pain.  Then 
he  caught  his  unknown  enemy  by  the  throat.  He 
pierced  another  with  his  sword.  A  deafening 
noise  of  cries  and  hissing,  and  cackling,  and  flut- 
tering, arose.  The  lamp  flickered  up  for  the  last 
time,  before  going  out;  and  Phyllis  called  out, 
laughing: 

"They  are  geese,  the  sacred  geese  of  Priapus! 
What  have  you  done?" 

The  victor  stood,  white  and  trembling,  holding 
in  one  hand  his  bloody  sword,  and  in  the  other  a 
slaughtered  goose. 

Loud  voices  were  beard  from  without,  and  a 
whole  crowd  with  torches  pressed  into  the  temple. 
In  front  was  Scabra,  the  old  priestess  of  Priapus. 
As  was  her  wont,  she  had  been  peaceably  drinking 


62  Julian  the  Apostate. 

her  wine  in  the  neighboring  tavern,  when  she 
heard  the  cries  of  the  sacred  geese,  and  hastened 
to  their  assistance,  with  a  whole  crowd  of  night- 
wanderers.  Her  hooked  red  nose,  grey,  unkempt 
hair,  and  eyes  like  two  steel  blades,  made  the 
priestess  of  Priapus  the  image  of  a  Fury.  She 
cried  out: 

"Help!  help!  The  temple  is  polluted!  The 
sacred  geese  of  Priapus  are  slain!  See,  these  are 
godless  Christians!  Seize  them!" 

Phyllis  escaped,  covered  from  head  to  foot  by 
her  cloak.  In  an  instant  the  crowd  dragged  Aga- 
memnon out  to  the  market-place;  he  was  so  be- 
wildered that  he  still  held  the  dead  goose  in  his 
hand.  Scabra  called  the  Agoranomes,  the  market 
watchmen. 

Every  moment  the  crowd  grew  denser. 

Agamemnon's  companions  ran  to  his  rescue. 
But  it  was  too  late.  From  their  haunts,  from  the 
taverns,  from  the  shops,  from  blind  alleys,  people 
streamed  forth,  attracted  by  the  noise.  On  their 
faces  was  that  expression  of  delighted  and  ecstatic 
curiosity  which  always  appears  at  a  street  commo- 
tion. A  blacksmith  ran  up,  with  a  hammer  in  his 
hand;  the  old  women,  his  neighbors,  the  baker, 
smeared  with  paste,  the  shoemaker,  hurried  up, 
limping.  And  behind  all  the  rest,  the  little  red- 
headed Jewish  boy  flew  along  whisting  and  shout- 
ing, hammering  his  bronze  basin  with  a  deafening 
din,  as  though  he  was  sounding  the  tocsin. 

Scabra  cried  out,  sticking  her  nails  into  Aga- 
memnon's garment: 

"Wait!  Ill  get  at  your  vile  beard!  I  won't 
leave  a  lock  of  it!  You  carrion,  raven's  food!  You 


Callus  and  the  Dancing  Girl.  63 

night  marauder,  you  are  not  worth  the  cord  you 
will  hang  by!" 

Finally,  the  awakened  Agoranomes  appeared, 
very  questionable  in  their  outward  looks,  much 
more  like  night  robbers  than  guardians  of  the 
peace. 

In  the  crowd,  the  noise  was  so  deafening,  min- 
gled cries,  laughter,  abuse,  that  no  one  could 
understand  anything.  Some  one  cried  out:  "Mur- 
derers!" Others:  "They  were  stealing!"  Yet 
others:  "Fire!" 

But  at  that  moment,  dominating  everything, 
resounded  the  thundering  voice  of  a  half-naked, 
red-headed  giant,  with  a  freckled  face,  by  pro- 
fession, a  bath-attendant;  by  calling,  a  street 
orator: 

"Citizens.  Hear  me  and  hearken.  I  have  been 
following  that  knave  for  a  long  time,  and  his  com- 
panions, too.  They  were  writing  down  names. 
They  are  spies,  spies  of  Caesar!" 

Scabra,  carrying  out  her  long-formed  intention, 
clutched  Agamemnon's  hair  with  one  hand,  and 
his  beard  with  the  other.  He  tried  to  push  her 
aside,  but  she  pulled  with  all  her  might,  and  to  the 
astonishment  of  all,  the  long  black  beard  and 
thick  hair  remained  in  her  hands.  The  old  woman 
fell  on  her  back.  Before  the  people,  instead  of 
Agamemnon,  stood  a  handsome  young  man,  with 
flowing,  soft  hair,  light  as  flax,  and  a  little  beard. 

The  crowd  was  dumb  with  astonishment.  Then 
the  voice  of  the  bath -man  thundered  forth  again: 

<rY"ou  see,  citizens,  they  are  informers,  dis- 
guised !" 

Some  one  cried: 

"Beat  them!    Beat  them!" 


64  Julian  the  Apostate. 

The  crowd  wavered.  Stones  began  to  fly.  His 
companions  gathered  round  the  transformed  Aga- 
memnon, and  bared  their  swords.  The  wool- 
carder  was  struck  down  by  the  first  blow.  He  fell, 
soaked  in  blood.  The  little  Jew  with  the  bronze 
basin  was  knocked  over.  Faces  became  like  wild 
beasts. 

At  that  moment,  ten  immense  Paphlagonian 
slaves,  with  a  purple  litter  on  their  shoulders, 
knocked  the  crowd  this  way  and  that. 

"Saved!"  cried  the  light-haired  youth,  and 
threw  himself,  with  one  of  his  companions,  into 
the  litter. 

The  Paphlagonians  lifted  it  on  their  shoulders 
and  ran. 

The  maddened  crowd  would  have  stopped  them, 
and  torn  them  to  pieces  on  the  spot,  if  some  one 
had  not  cried  out: 

"Do  you  not  see,  citizens?  It  is  the  Caesar, 
Gallus  Caesar  himself!" 

The  people  stood  still,  petrified  with  terror. 

The  purple  litter,  rocking  on  the  backs  of  the 
slaves,  like  a  boat  on  the  waves,  disappeared  in  the 
depths  of  an  unlighted  street. 

Six  years  had  passed  since  the  time  when  Julian 
and  Gallus  were  confined  in  the  fortress  of  Macel- 
lum.  The  Emperor  Constantius  had  restored 
them  to  his  favor.  Nineteen-year-old  Julian  had 
been  summoned  to  Constantinople,  and  had  after- 
ward been  permitted  to  travel  through  the  cities 
of  Asia  Minor.  The  emperor  had  made  Gallus  his 
coadjutor,  the  Caesar,  and  had  given  him  the  gov- 
ernment of  the  East.  But  this  unexpected  favor 
boded  no  good.  Constantius  loved  to  overwhelm 


Gallus  and  the  Dancing  Girl.  65 

his  enemies,  disarming  their  suspicions  with  exces- 
sive favors. 

"Well,  Glycon,  no  matter  how  much  Constan- 
tina  tries  to  assure  me,  I  will  go  no  more  into  the 
streets  with  false  hair.  This  is  the  end  of  it!" 

"We  warned  your  Majesty  that  it  was  danger- 
ous." 

But  the  Caesar,  reclining  on  the  soft  cushions 
of  the  litter,  forgot  his  recent  fear.  He  was  laugh- 
ing already: 

"Glycon!  Glycon!  Did  you  see  how  that 
cursed  old  woman  tumbled  head  over  heels,  with 
my  beard  in  her  hands?  When  I  looked,  she  was 
down  already!" 

When  they  reached  the  palace,  the  Caesar  or- 
dered: 

"'Quick,  a  perfumed  bath,  and  then  supper.  T 
am  hungry." 

A  court  attendant  approached  with  a  letter. 

"What  is  it,  Norbanus?  No,  no,  business  to- 
morrow morning." 

"Gracious  Caesar,  the  letter  is  important;  it 
comes  straight  from  the  camp  of  the  Emperor 
Constantius." 

"From  Constantius!  What  is  it?  Give  it  to 
me." 

He  broke  the  seal,  read  it,  and  grew  pale.  His 
knees  trembled  under  him.  If  the  courtiers  had 
not  held  him  up,  Gallus  would  have  fallen  on  the 
floor. 

Constantius,  in  the  most  elaborate,  and  even 
flattering  terms,  invited  his  dearly-beloved  cousin, 
Gallus,  to  Mediolanum.  At  the  same  time  tha 
emperor  commanded  that  he  should  immediately 
Bend  him  the  two  legions  which  were  stationed 


66  Julian  the  Apostate. 

in  Antioch,  Gallus'  only  protection.  Constantius 
wished  to  disarm  and  ensnare  his  enemy. 

When  the  Caesar  came  to  himself,  he  said  in  a 
weak  voice: 

"Call  my  wife." 

"Our  gracious  master,  it  was  your  consort's 
pleasure  to  leave  a  short  time  ago  for  Antioch." 

"What?    And  she  knows  nothing?" 

"She  knows  nothing." 

"Lord,  Lord!  What  does  it  mean?  Without 
her!  Tell  the  emperor's  messenger — no,  tell  him 
nothing.  I  do  not  know.  Can  I,  without  her? 
Send  a  swift  rider!  Tell  her  that  Caesar  begs  her 
to  return.  Lord,  what  am  I  to  do?" 

He  walked  about,  bewildered,  seizing  his  head 
with  both  hands,  twisting  his  fair  beard  with 
trembling  fingers,  and  repeating,  helplessly: 

"No,  no,  I  will  not  go  for  anything.  Better 
death!  Oh,  I  know  Constantius!" 

Another  messenger  came  with  a  paper. 

"From  Caesar's  consort.  On  setting  out,  she 
begged  him  to  sign  it  without  delay. 

"What?  Another  death-warrant  already! 
Clematius  of  Alexandria!  This  is  too  much;  it 
cannot  be.  Three  every  day!" 

"But  such  is  your  consort's  good  pleasure." 

"Well,  it  is  all  the  same!  Give  me  the  ink!  It 
is  all  the  same  now.  But  why  did  she  go  away? 
What  can  I  do  now,  alone?" 

And  he  signed  the  death-warrant,  and  looked 
up  with  his  childish,  light-blue,  good-natured  eyes. 

"The  bath  and  supper  are  ready." 

"Supper?    No— but  what  is  there?" 

"Truffles  from  Africa." 

"Fresh?" 


The  Godlike  lambliclius.  67 

"They  have  just  come." 

"Well,  it  is  better  to  get  some  strength,  eh? 
What  do  you  think,  my  friends?  I  felt  so  weak. 
Truffles.  I  thought  this  morning — " 

A  shallow  smile  lit  up  his  bewildered  face. 

Before  entering  the  cool  water,  dull  opal  from 
the  perfumes,  the  Caesar  exclaimed,  with  a  wave 
of  his  hand: 

"Well,  no  matter,  no  matter!  There  is  no  use 
thinking  about  it.  Oh  Lord,  have  mercy  upon  us 
sinful  men!  Perhaps  Constantina  will  arrange  it 
somehow!" 

And  the  over-fed  pink  face  grew  quite  cheerful 
again.  When  he  plunged  into  the  bath,  with  his 
wonted  delight,  the  Caesar  cried  out  joyfully: 

"Tell  the  cook,  without  fail,  to  serve  a  sour  red 
sauce  with  the  truffles!" 


CHAPTER  VII. 
THE  GODLIKE  IAMBLICHUS. 

In  the  cities  of  Asia  Minor,  Nicomedia,  Per- 
gamos,  Smyrna,  whither  nineteen-year-old  Julian 
had  wandered  in  search  of  Grecian  wisdom,  he 
had  heard  of  the  famous  theurgist  and  sophist, 
lambliclius  of  Chalcidica,  the  pupil  of  the  Neo- 
platonist  Porphyry,  the  godlike  lamblichus,  as  all 
men  called  him. 

Julian  went  to  him,  in  Ephesus. 

lamblichus  was  an  old  man,  small,  lean, 
wrinkled. 

He  loved  to  complain  of  his  illnesses,  his  gout, 


68  Julian  the  Apostate. 

his  rheumatism,  his  headaches.  He  abused  the 
doctors,  but  carefully  followed  their  treatment. 
He  took  great  delight  in  talking  about  poultices, 
infusions,  medicines  and  plasters.  He  went  about 
in  a  soft  lined  tunic,  even  in  summer,  and  could 
never  keep  warm.  He  was  as  fond  of  the  sun  as 
a  lizard. 

From  his  early  youth,  lamblichus  had  abstained 
from  eating  flesh,  and  spoke  of  it  with  sincere  dis- 
gust. He  could  not  understand  how  people  could 
eat  anything  that  had  had  life.  His  maid-servant 
prepared  him  a  special  kind  of  barley  porridge,  a 
little  warm  wine,  and  honey.  Even  bread  the  old 
man  could  not  masticate  with  his  toothless  gums. 

Around  him  were  gathered  a  great  crowd  of 
pupils,  full  of  respect  and  adoration  for  him,  from 
Rome,  Antioch,  Carthage,  Egypt,  Mesopotamia, 
and  Persia.  All  believed  that  lamblichus  worked 
miracles.  He  treated  them  like  a  father,  who  was 
weary  of  having  so  many  little,  helpless  children. 
When  they  began  to  dispute  or  quarrel,  the  teacher 
waved  his  hand  with  a  grimace  of  physical  pain. 
He  spoke  in  a  gentle,  pleasant  voice,  and  the 
higher  rose  the  voices  of  the  disputants,  the  more 
gently  spoke  lamblichus.  He  could  not  endure 
noise,  and  hated  loud  voices  and  creaking  sandals. 

Julian,  greatly  disappointed,  looked  with  per- 
plexity at  the  capricious,  shivering,  sick,  old  man, 
unable  to  see  what  power  could  attract  people  to 
him. 

He  remembered  that  it  was  said  that  his  pupik 
had  seen  him  once,  at  night,  at  the  hour  of  prayer, 
raised  by  a  miraculous  force  ten  cubits  above  the 
ground,  and  surrounded  with  an  oreole  of  golden 
radiance.  And  there  was  another  story  of  how  the 


The  Godlike  lamblichus.  69 

teacher,  in  the  Syrian  town  of  Gadara,  had  evoked 
from  the  two  springs  of  Eros  and  Anteros,  a  joyful 
genius  of  love,  with  fair  curls,  and  a  dark,  sorrow- 
ful spirit.  Both  nestled  up  to  lamblichus,  like 
children,  and  vanished  again  at  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

Julian  listened  to  the  words  of  the  teacher,  but 
could  find  no  power  in  them.  The  metaphysics 
of  the  school  of  Porphyry  seemed  to  him  dry,  dead, 
and  terribly  complicated.  lamblichus  seemed  to 
be  playing  at  overcoming  dialectic  difficulties  on 
contested  points.  In  his  teaching  of  God,  of  the 
world,  of  Ideas,  of  the  Triad  of  Plotinus,  there 
was  deep  book-knowledge, — and  not  a  spark  of 
life.  Julian  had  expected  something  different. 

Nevertheless,  he  waited,  and  did  not  go  away. 

lamblichus  had  strange,  green  eyes,  which 
showed  even  more  distinctly  against  his  dusky, 
wrinkled  skin.  Sometimes  the  evening  sky  has 
this  greenish  color,  when  seen  between  dark 
clouds,  before  a  storm.  It  seemed  to  Julian  that 
in  those  eyes,  which  were  not  human,  and  still 
less  divine,  there  gleamed  that  occult,  higher,  ser- 
pentlike  wisdom,  of  which  lamblichus  uttered  not. 
a  word  to  his  disciples.  But  suddenly,  in  a  tired, 
low  voice,  the  godlike  teacher  asked  why  his  barley 
porridge  or  poultices  were  not  ready,  or  com- 
plained of  his  gout,  and  Julian's  reverence  van- 
ished. 

Once  he  was  walking  with  Julian  outside  tho 
city,  on  the  sea-shore.  It  was  a  soft,  sad  evening. 
Far  off,  over  the  harbor  of  Panormos,  gleamed  the 
white  terraces  of  the  famous  temple  of  Diana  of 
the  Ephesian?,  crowned  with  statues.  On  the 
sandy  shore  of  Cayster, — it  was  here,  according  to 
tradition,  that  Latona  gave  birth  to  Apollo  and 


70  Julian  the  Apostate. 

Diana, — the  thin,  dark  reeds  were  motionless. 
The  smoke  of  innumerable  altars  from  the  sacred 
grove  of  Ortygia  rose  in  straight  columns  to  the 
sky.  To  the  south,  the  mountains  of  Samos  shone 
white.  The  beating  of  the  breakers  was  soft  as 
the  breath  of  a  sleeping  child.  Transparent  waves 
broke  over  the  smooth,  black  sand.  There  was  a 
smell  of  the  salt  water  warmed  by  the  sun,  and  of 
seaweed.  The  setting  sun  was  hidden  behind  the 
clouds,  gilding  their  piled-up  masses. 

lamblichus  sat  down  on  a  stone,  and  Julian 
reclined  at  his  feet.  The  teacher  stroked  Julian's 
stiff,  black  hair: 

"You  are  sad?" 

"Yes!" 

"I  know,  I  know.  You  are  seeking,  but  not 
finding.  You  have  not  the  strength  to  say:  'He 
is;'  and  you  have  not  the  courage  to  say  'He  is 
not.' " 

"How  did  you  guess,  teacher?" 

"Poor  boy!  I  have  been  suffering  from  the  same 
malady  for  fifty  years.  And  I  shall  suffer,  to  the 
day  of  my  death.  Do  you  think  I  know  Him  more 
than  you  do?  These  are  perpetual  birth-pains. 
In  comparison  with  them,  all  other  pains  are  as 
nothing.  People  think  that  they  suffer  from 
hunger  or  thirst  or  pain  or  poverty.  In  reality 
they  suffer  only  from  the  thought  that  perhaps 
He  is  not.  This  is  the  only  suffering  in  the  world. 
Who  dares  to  say  'He  is  not?'  and  who  knows  what 
superhuman  power  is  needed  to  say  'He  is?' " 

"And  you,  even  you  have  never  drawn  near  to 
Him?" 

"Thrice  in  my  life  I  experienced  the  ecstasy, 
the  full  absorption  into  Him.  Plotinus  experi- 


The  Godlike  lamblichus.  71 

enced  it  four  times.  Porphyry,  five.  There  were 
three  moments  in  my  life,  for  the  sake  of  which 
it  was  worth  while  to  live." 

"I  asked  your  pupils  about  this.  They  knew 
nothing." 

"Do  they  dare  to  know?  The  husks  of  wisdom 
are  enough  for  them.  For  almost  all  men,  the 
kernel  is  deadly." 

"Let  me  die,  teacher!    But  give  it  to  me!" 

"You  dare?" 

"I  dare!    Tell  me!  tell  me!" 

"What  can  I  tell  you?  I  know  not  how.  And 
is  it  right  to  speak  of  it?  Listen  to  the  stillness 
of  the  evening.  It  will  tell  you  the  secret  better 
than  any  words." 

And  he  stroked  Julian's  head  as  before,  as 
though  he  had  been  a  child.  The  pupil  thought: 
"This  is  it!  this  is  what  I  was  waiting  for!"  He 
clasped  lamblichus'  knees,  looked  up  entreatingly 
into  his  eyes,  and  said: 

"Teacher,  have  pity!  Reveal  all.  Do  not  desert 
me." 

lamblichus  spoke  low,  as  if  to  himself,  as  if  he 
neither  heard  nor  saw  his  puipl.-  His  strangely 
unmoving,  green  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  clouds, 
inwardly  gilded  by  the  sun. 

"Yes,  yes,  we  have  all  forgotten  the  Father's 
voice.  Like  children  separated  from  the  Father 
from  our  cradles,  we  hear  it,  and  do  not  recognize 
it.  There  must  be  perfect  silence  in  the  soul,  a 
ceasing  of  all  earthly  and  heavenly  voices.  Then 
may  we  hear  His  voice.  While  the  reason  shines, 
and  like  a  noonday  sun  illumines  the  soul,  we 
remain  in  ourselves,  and  behold  not  God.  But 
when  the  reason  draws  near  to  its  setting,  an 


72  Julian  the  Apostate. 

ecstasy  comes  over  the  soul,  like  the  dew  of  even- 
ing. The  wicked  cannot  feel  that  ecstasy.  Only 
the  wise  man  becomes  a  lyre,  which  trembles  and 
resounds  under  the  hand  of  God.  Whence  comes 
the  light  that  illumines  the  soul?  I  know  not. 
It  comes  stealthily,  when  you  do  not  expect  it. 
It  cannot  be  sought  out.  God  is  not  far  from  us, 
"We  must  prepare  ourselves.  We  must  be  full  of 
quietness,  and  wait,  as  the  eyes  wait,  for  the  rising 
of  the  sun,  that  uplifts  his  light  in  the  words  of 
the  poet,  from  the  dark  ocean.  God  neither  comes 
nor  goes.  He  only  manifests  himself.  And  then 
He  is  the  opposite  of  the  world,  the  opposite  of 
all  that  is.  He  is  nothing.  He  is  All." 

lamblichus  rose  from  the  stone,  and  slowly 
spread  his  lean,  weak  hands. 

"Be  still,  be  still,— I  say  unto  you,— be  still! 
Hearken  unto  Him.  He  is  here.  Let  the  earth 
and  the  sea  be  silent,  and  the  air,  and  even  the 
heavens!  Hearken!  It  is  He  who  fills  the  uni- 
verse, piercing  the  atoms  with  His  breath,  and 
illumining  matter, — Chaos,  'that  makes  the  gods 
to  fear,' — as  the  evening  sun  gilds  that  dark 
cloud." 

Julian  listened,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
teacher's  voice,  weak  and  low,  filled  the  world, 
reaching  even  to  the  very  heavens,  to  the  utmost 
limits  of  the  deep.  But  Julian's  sadness  was  so 
great  that  it  escaped  from  his  breast  in  an  invol- 
untary sigh: 

"My  father,  forgive  me,  but  if  it  be  so,  to  what 
end  is  life?  why  this  eternal  alternation  of  life 
and  death?  why  are  there  sufferings?  why  is  there 
evil?  why  is  there  a  body?  why  are  there  doubts? 
why  is  there  a  longing  after  the  impossible?" 


The  Godlike  lamblielius.  73 

lamblichus  shuddered  slightly,  laid  his  hand  on 
Julian's  hair  once  more,  and  answered: 

"That  is  where  the  mystery  lies,  my  son.  There 
is  neither  evil,  nor  the  body,  nor  the  world,  if  He 
is.  Either  He,  or  the  world.  It  seems  to  us  that 
there  is  evil,  that  there  is  the  body,  that  there  is 
the  world.  This  is  but  an  illusion, — a  cheat  of 
life.  Remember, — all  have  one  soul,  all  men,  and 
even  inarticulate  things.  There  was  a  time  when 
we  all  rested  together  in  the  bosom  of  the  Father, 
in  the  everlasting  light.  But  once  we  looked  from 
above,  into  the  darkness,  the  material  world,  and 
each  saw  in  it  his  own  image,  as  in  a  mirror.  And 
the  soul  said  to  itself:  'I  can  and  will  be  free!  I 
am  as  He  is.  Can  I  not  dare  to  separate  myself 
from  him,  and  become  the  All?'  The  soul,  like 
Narcissus  in  the  stream,  was  taken  captive  by  the 
beauty  of  its  own  image,  mirrored  in  the  body. 
And  then  it  fell;  it  wished  to  fall  to  the  end,  to 
separate  itself  from  God  forever, — and  could  not. 
The  feet  of  a  mortal  touch  the  earth;  his  brow  is 
higher  than  the  summit  of  heaven.  And  so  by  the 
everlasting  ladder  of  birth  and  death,  souls,  all 
beings,  rise  to  Him,  and  descend  from  Him.  They 
try  to  depart  from  the  Father,  and  cannot.  Every 
soul  wishes  to  be  God,  but  in  vain:  it  longs  for 
the  bosom  of  the  Father,  and  finds  no  rest  on 
earth,  thirsting  to  return  to  the  One.  We  must 
return  to  Him,  and  then  all  will  be  God,  and  God 
will  be  all.  Are  you  the  only  one  who  longs  for 
Him?  See  what  a  heavenly  sadness  there  is  in 
the  stillness  of  nature.  Listen!  Can  you  not  feel 
that  all  things  are  longing  for  Him?" 

The  sun  set.  The  golden,  incandescent  clouds 
grew  cold.  The  sea  became  pale  and  ethereal  as 


74  Julian  the  Apostate. 

the  sky.  The  sky,  as  blue  and  clear  as  the  sea. 
Along  the  road  a  wagon  rumbled.  In  it  sat  a 
youth  and  a  woman, — two  lovers,  perhaps.  The 
woman's  voice  sang  a  sad,  familiar  love-song. 
Afterward  all  once  more  became  silent,  and  still 
sadder.  The  swift,  southern  night  descended  from 
the  heavens.  Julian  murmured: 

"How  often  I  have  wondered  why  nature  is  so 
sad.  The  more  beautiful,  the  sadder  it  is/' 

lamblichus  replied  with  a  smile: 

"Yes,  yes;  nature  would  fain  say  what  she  is 
grieving  for,  but  cannot.  She  is  dumb.  She 
sleeps,  and  tries  to  remember  God  in  her  slumber, 
through  the  veil  of  her  dream,  but  cannot,  because 
of  the  burden  of  matter.  She  conceives  God 
dimly  and  dreamily.  All  worlds,  all  stars,  and  the 
sea,  and  the  earth,  and  living  things,  and  trees, 
and  people, — all  are  nature's  dreams  of  God.  What 
she  conceives  is  born  and  dies.  She  creates  by 
conceiving  only,  as  happens  in  dreams;  creates 
easily,  knowing  neither  effort  nor  obstacle.  That 
is  why  the  waves  of  her  creation  are  so  beautiful, 
so  purposeless,  so  divine.  Nature  plays  at  seeing 
visions, — it  is  like  the  sport  of  the  clouds.  With- 
out beginning,  it  is  without  end.  Beyond  con- 
ceiving, there  is  nothing  in  the  universe.  The 
deeper  it  is,  the  quieter.  Will,  struggle,  action, 
are  only  weak,  incomplete,  or  clouded  dreams  of 
God.  Nature,  in  her  mighty  inactivity,  creates 
forms,  like  Geometry.  What  she  sees,  exists.  She 
pours  forth  form  after  form,  from  her  maternal 
bosom.  But  her  dim  and  silent  conception  is  only 
the  image  of  another,  and  a  bright  one.  Nature 
seeks  the  word,  and  finds  it  not.  Nature  is  the 
sleeping  mother  Cybele,  with  eyes  perpetually 


The  Godlike  lamblichus.  75 

closed.  Man  alone  has  discovered  the  word  which 
nature  sought,  and  found  not.  The  soul  of  man 
is  nature,  opening  her  sleeping  lids,  awakening, 
and  ready  to  behold  God, — no  longer  in  a  dream, 
but  openly, — face  to  face." 

The  first  stars  shone  out  on  the  darkening  and 
deepening  sky.  Now  and  again  they  faded,  only 
to  flash  up  again  once  more.  They  seemed  to 
rotate,  like  great  diamonds,  strung  to  the  firma- 
ment. New  stars  kept  lighting  up,  and  ever  new 
ones.  lamblichus  pointed  to  them: 

"To  what  shall  I  liken  the  world— all  these 
suns  and  stars?  I  shall  liken  them  to  a  net,  cast 
by  the  fishermen  into  the  sea.  The  net  moves,  but 
cannot  stop  the  water,  and  the  universe  tries  to 
lay  hold  on  God,  but  cannot.  The  net  moves, 
but  God  is  still,  as  the  limitless  ocean,  in  which 
the  net  is  cast.  If  the  universe  did  not  move,  God 
would  have  created  nothing,  would  not  have  moved 
from  his  repose;  for  why  and  what  should  He 
strive  after?  There,  in  the  kingdom  of  the  eternal 
Mothers,  in  the  bosom  of  the  Universal  Spirit,  lie 
the  seeds,  the  Idea-forms,  of  all  that  has  been,  and 
shall  be, — the  Logos  lies  hidden,  the  germ  of  the 
cricket,  of  a  blade  of  grass,  and  side  by  side  with 
them,  in  the  germ  of  the  Olympian  God." 

Then  Julian  cried  aloud,  and  his  voice  sounded 
on  the  evening  stillness  like  a  cry  of  mortal  pain : 

"But  who  is  He?  Who  is  He?  Why  does  He 
not  answer  when  we  cry  to  Him?  What  is  His 
name?  I  would  known  Him,  see  and  hear  Him. 
Why  does  He  evade  my  thought?  Where  is  He?" 

"Poor  child, — what  means  thought  before  Him? 
He  has  no  name.  He  is  of  such  nature  that  we 
can  only  say  what  He  cannot  be,  and  never  what 


76  Julian  the  Apostate. 

He  is.  But  you  cannot  suffer  without  praising 
Him;  you  cannot  love  without  praising  Him;  you 
cannot  curse  without  praising  Him.  Creating  all, 
He  himself  is  nought  of  what  He  has  created. 
When  you  say  'He  is  not/  you  offer  Him  not  less 
praise  than  when  you  say  'He  is/  Nought  can  be 
affirmed  of  Him;  neither  existence,  nor  being,  nor 
life;  because  He  is  above  all  existence,  higher  than 
all  being,  beyond  all  life.  That  is  why  I  said  He 
is  the  negation  of  the  world,  the  negation  of  your 
thought.  Turn  away  from  the  existent,  from  all 
that  is;  and  there,  in  the  abyss  of  the  abyss,  the 
depths  of  unspeakable  darkness,  like  to  the  light, 
thou  shalt  find  Him.  Give  up  for  Him  friends 
and  kin  and  land,  heaven  and  earth,  and  thyself 
and  thy  reason.  Then  thou  shalt  no  longer  see 
the  light,  for  thou  shalt  be  the  light.  Thou  wilt 
no  longer  say:  'He  and  I;'  thou  wilt  feel  that 
He  and  ihon  are  one;  and  thy  soul  will  mock  at 
thine  own  body,  as  at  a  mirage.  Then, — the 
silence,  and  no  more  words  at  all.  And  if  the 
world,  at  that  very  moment,  should  fall  into  ruins, 
thou  wilt  rejoice,  for  what  is  the  world  to  thee 
who  art  one  with  Him?  Thy  soul  will  desire  no 
more,  for  He  has  no  desire;  it  will  no  more  live, 
for  He  is  above  life;  it  will  not  think,  because  He 
is  higher  than  thought.  Thought  is  a  searching 
for  the  light;  but  He  seeks  not  the  light,  because 
He  is  the  Light.  He  penetrates  thy  soul  utterly, 
and  re-creates  it  into  Himself.  And  then  above 
passion  and  alone,  it  rests  above  reason;  higher 
than  the  righteous,  higher  than  the  realm  of 
Ideas,  higher  than  beauty,  in  the  abyss,  in  the 
bosom  of  the  Father  of  Lights.  The  soul  becomes 
God,  or  to  speak  more  truly,  it  understands  at  last 


The  Godlike  lambliclms.  77 

that  throughout  the  eternities,  it  was,  and  is,  and 
shall  be  God.  .  .  .  Such,  my  son,  is  the  life  of 
the  Olympians,  such  is  the  life  of  godlike  men  and 
sages.  A  renunciation  of  all  that  is  in  the  world, 
a  contempt  for  the  passions  of  earth,  the  flight  of 
the  soul  to  him  whom  it  beholds  face  to  face." 

He  was  silent,  and  Julian  fell  at  his  feet,  not 
daring  to  touch  him,  and  only  kissed  the  earth 
which  the  feet  of  the  holy  man  had  touched. 
Then  the  pupil  raised  his  face,  and  gazed  into 
those  strange  green  eyes,  in  which  shone  the  un- 
veiled secret  of  the  Serpent's  wisdom.  They 
seemed  quiet,  and  deeper  than  the  sky;  within 
them  seemed  to  flow  a  magical  power.  Julian 
whispered : 

"Teacher,  you  can  do  all  things,  I  believe! 
Command  the  mountains,  and  the  mountains  will 
move!  Be  like  Him!  Work  a  miracle!  Accom- 
plish the  impossible;  pity  me;  I  believe!" 

"My  poor  child,  what  do  you  ask  of  me?  Is  not 
the  miracle  which  may  be  accomplished  in  your 
soul  greater  than  any  miracle  that  I  can  work.  My 
child,  is  not  that  miracle  more  terrible  and  divine, 
that  power  in  whose  name  you  dare  to  say:  'He 
is,'  and  if  He  is  not,  all  the  same  'He  shall  be.' 
And  you  say:  'So  shall  He  be;  I  will  it  so!' " 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  THE  TEMPLE. 

When  teacher  and  pupil,  returning  from  their 
walk,  were  passing  Panormus,  the  populous  port 
of  Ephesus,  they  noticed  an  unwonted  tumult. 

Many  were  running  through  the  streets,  waving 
flaming  pine  torches,  and  crying: 

"The  Christians  are  destroying  the  temple! 
Woe  unto  us!" 

Others  cried: 

"Death  to  the  Olympian  gods!  Astarte  is  con- 
quered by  Christ!" 

lamblichus  thought  to  escape  by  deserted  by- 
streets, but  the  hurrying  crowd  carried  them  along 
the  quay  of  Cayster,  past  the  shrine  of  Diana  of 
the  Ephesians.  The  splendid  temple,  the  creation 
of  Dinocrates,  stood  like  a  fortress,  stern,  dark, 
and  immovable,  clear-cut  against  the  starry  sky. 
The  gleam  of  the  torches  shone  on  the  tall  col- 
umns, with  their  lovely  and  delicate  groups, — little 
caryatides  instead  of  pedestals.  Up  till  now,  not 
only  all  the  Eoman  empire,  but  all  the  world,  had 
held  it  sacred.  Some  one  in  the  crowd  cried  out 
hesitatingly: 

"Great  is  Diana  of  the  Ephesians!" 

And  hundreds  of  voices  answered  him: 

"Death  to  the  Olympian  gods,  and  to  Diana!" 

Above  the  black  walls  of  the  city  arsenal  rose  a 
blood-red  glow. 

Julian  looked  at  his  godlike  teacher,  and  did  not 
78 


The  Destruction  of  the  Temple.  79 

recognize  him.  lamblichus  had  once  more  be- 
come the  timid,  sick  old  man.  He  complained  of 
headache  and  expressed  a  fear  that  his  rheumatism 
would  begin  again  at  night,  and  that  the  servant 
had  forgotten  the  poultices.  Julian  gave  the 
teacher  his  upper  cloak.  Yet  he  was  still  cold. 
With  a  morbid  grimace,  he  stopped  his  ears,  not 
to  hear  the  cries  and  laughter  of  the  crowd. 

lamblichus  feared  a  crowd  above  all  else  in  the 
world,  and  said  that  no  demon  was  stupider  or 
more  repulsive  than  the  genius  of  the  mob.  He 
directed  his  pupil's  attention  to  the  faces  of  the 
people  who  were  hurrying  past  him: 

"Look!  what  ugliness,  what  baseness!  How 
confident  they  are  that  they  are  right!  Is  it  not 
shameful  to  be  a  man  of  the  same  flesh,  the  same 
clay  as  they?" 

An  old  Christian  woman  whimpered: 

"And  my  sick  grandson  says'to  me:  'Grandma, 
cook  me  some  meat-soup.'  All  right,  dear,  I  said, 
I'm  off  to  the  market  to  get  the  meat.  And  I 
think  to  myself:  meat  is  cheaper  than  wheaten 
bread  now.  I  bought  five  oboli's  worth.  I  made 
the  soup  for  him.  And  my  neighbor  in  the  court- 
yard calls  out  to  me:  'What  are  you  cooking? 
Do  you  not  know  that  meat  is  defiled?'  How  de- 
filed? What  is  the  matter?  It  was  this  way:  to 
injure  good  Christian  souls,  the  priests  of  the 
goddess  Demeter  went  at  night,  and  sprinkled  the 
whole  market  and  all  the  meat-shops  with  water 
that  had  been  consecrated  to  the  goddess.  No  one 
in  the  city  will  eat  the  defiled  meat.  That  is  why 
they  are  stoning  the  priests  of  Demeter,  and  pull- 
ing down  Demeter's  diabolical  shrine.  And  so  I 
threw  out  the  meat-soup  to  the  dogs.  Is  that  a 


80  Julian  the  Apostate. 

joke-five  oboli?  It  would  take  you  a  whole  day  to 
earn  it!  But  I  did  not  defile  my  grandson." 

Others  told  how,  the  year  before,  a  niggardly 
Christian  had  eaten  the  defiled  meat,  and  all  his 
intestines  had  rotted.  And  there  was  such  a 
stench  in  the  house  that  all  his  kindred  fled. 

They  reached  the  square.  Here  was  a  charming 
little  shrine  of  Demeter-Isis-Astarte,  the  three- 
faced  Hecate,  the  mysterious  goddess  of  the  earth's 
fertility,  the  mighty  and  prolific  Cybele,  the 
mother  of  the  gods.  Monks  were  crowding  round 
the  shrine  on  all  sides,  like  flies  round  a  honey- 
comb. The  monks  swarmed  along  the  white  cor- 
nices, crowding  up  the  stairs  singing  psalms,  and 
smashed  the  statues  and  bas-reliefs.  The  columns 
trembled.  Splinters  of  soft  marble  flew  about.  It 
seemed  to  suffer,  like  a  living  body.  They  tried  to 
set  fire  to  the  building,  but  it  was  all  of  marble, 
and  they  could  not. 

Suddenly  within  the  temple  there  arose  a  deaf- 
ening, and  at  the  same  time  strangely  melodious 
metallic  sound.  The  triumphant  howls  of  the 
people  rose  to  the  skies. 

"A  rope!  a  rope!  Bind  her  shameless  hands  and 
feet!" 

With  chanted  prayers  and  joyful  laughter,  the 
crowd  dragged  forth  from  the  door  of  the  temple 
the  rope-bound  goddess,  a  pale,  fair  body  of  ring- 
ing silver;  it  was  the  mother  of  the  gods,  the  work 
of  Scopas. 

"To  the  fire!  to  the  fire!" 

And  they  dragged  her  along  the  dirty  square. 

A  lawyer  monk  read  aloud  a  part  of  the  recent 
and  famous  law  of  the  Emperor  Constans,  the 
brother  of  Constantius: 


The  Destruction  of  the  Temple.  81 

"Let  superstition  cease,  and  the  madness  of 
sacrifices  be  abolished!" 

"Fear-  nothing!  Destroy  and  plunder  every- 
thing in  the  devil's  shrine!" 

Another  was  reading  by  torchlight  from  a 
parchment  roll  the  following  lines  of  the  book  of 
Firmicus  Maternus:  De  err&re  profanarum  reli- 
gionum: 

"Holy  emperors!  come  to  the  rescue  of  the  un- 
happy heathen!  Better  save  them  by  force  than 
give  them  over  to  perish.  Tear  the  ornaments 
from  their  temples;  let  their  treasures  enrich  your 
treasuries.  And  let  him  who  brings  offerings  to 
idols,  be  uprooted  from  the  earth.  Give  him  up 
to  death,  stone  him,  though  he  be  thy  son,  thy 
brother,  thy  wife,  sleeping  on  thy  bosom." 

And  a  triumphant  cry  rose  above  the  crowd: 
"Death,  death  to  the  Olympian  gods!" 

A  huge  Arian  monk,  with  disheveled  black  hair, 
clotted  against  his  sweaty  face,  raised  a  bronze  axe 
above  the  goddess,  and  chose  a  place  to  strike. 

Some  one  advised  him: 

"Her  breast,  her  foul  breast!" 

The  silver  body  bent,  disfigured;  the  blows  rang 
mercilessly,  leaving  gashes  on  the  breast  of 
Demeter,  the  all-nourishing,  the  Mother  of  gods 
and  men. 

An  old  heathen  covered  his  face  with  his  goAvn, 
not  to  see  the  sacrilege.  He  wept,  and  thought 
that  all  was  over  now,  that  the  world  was  lost. 
The  fertile  earth,  Demeter,  would  no  longer  be 
willing  to  bring  forth  a  single  blade  of  corn  for 
men. 

A  hermit,  come  from  the  desert  of  Mesopotamia, 
in  a  sheepskin,  with  a  staff  and  a  hollow  gourd, 


82  Julian  the  Apostate. 

instead  of  a  bottle,  in  coarse  sandals,  with  iron 
hob-nails,  ran  to  the  goddess. 

"For  forty  years  I  have  not  washed  myself,  in 
order  not  to  look  upon  my  own  nakedness,  so  that 
I  may  not  be  allured.  But  as  soon  as  you  come 
into  the  city,  brothers,  the  Lord  forgive  us,  you 
see  nothing  but  the  naked  bodies  of  these  cursed 
gods  everywhere.  Are  we  to  suffer  this  devilish 
enticement  much  longer?  Pagan  idols  every- 
where: in  the  houses,  in  the  streets,  on  the  roofs, 
in  the  baths,  under  our  feet,  above  our  heads!  All 
the  time  you  have,  spit  at  them  right  and  left!" 

And  full  of  detestation  for  the  naked  body,  full 
of  the  terror  of  sin,  the  old  man  struck  the  benign 
breasts  of  Cybele  with  his  sandals.  He  kicked  her 
bare  bosom;  she  seemed  to  him  so  lifelike  that  he 
wished  to  crush  her  under  the  sharp  nails  of  his 
heavy  sandals.  He  hissed,  choking  with  anger: 

"Take  that,  shameless,  naked  harlot.  Take  that!" 

Under  his  feet,  the  lips  of  the  goddess  preserved 
their  quiet  smile.  The  crowd  began  to  lift  her  up, 
to  throw  her  into  the  bonfire.  A  drunken  crafts- 
man, his  breath  smelling  of  garlic,  spat  in  her  face. 

The  bonfire  was  huge.  They  threw  all  the 
wooden  stalls  from  the  market-place,  which  had 
been  defiled  by  the  consecrated  water,  into  it. 
High  above  the  crowd,  the  quiet  stars  hardly 
twinkled  through  the  smoke. 

They  threw  the  goddess  into  the  fire  to  melt  her 
silver  body.  And  once  more,  with  a  soft  ringing 
sound,  she  struck  against  the  naming  firebrands. 

"Five  talents  of  molten  metal.  Thirty  thou- 
sand pieces  of  silver.  "We  shall  send  half  to  the 
emperor,  to  pay  the  soldiers,  and  give  the  other 
half  to  the  poor.  Cybele  at  least  will  do  some  one 


The  Destruction  of  the  Temple.  83 

some  good.  Out  of  a  goddess  thirty  thousand 
pieces  of  silver  for  the  soldiers  and  the  poor!" 

"Firewood!    More  firewood!" 

The  flame  blazed  up  brighter,  and  all  grew 
gayer  around  it. 

"Let  us  see  whether  the  devil  will  fly  out  of  her. 
They  say  there  is  a  devil  in  every  idol,  and  in  a 
goddess,  two  or  three!" 

"As  soon  as  she  begins  to  melt,  the  evil  one  will 
feel  hot.  And  then  he  will  jump  out  of  her 
heathen  mouth,  like  a  blood-red  or  a  fiery  snake." 

"No,  we  ought  to  have  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross  on  her  first;  for  the  devil  will  bury  itself  in 
the  ground  like  an  adder.  The  year  before  last, 
they  burned  the  shrine  of  Aphrodite4  Somebody 
sprinkled  her  with  holy  water.  And  what  do  you 
think?  From  under  her  robe  came  a  lot  of  little 
devils.  I  saw  them  myself.  They  were  fetid, 
black,  with  white  stripes,  and  hairy.  And  they 
squealed  like  mice.  And  when  they  smashed 
Aphrodite's  head  off,  the  biggest  of  them  jumped 
out  of  her  throat,  and  he  had  horns  as  big  as  that! 
and  a  peeled  tail,  naked,  without  any  hair  on  it, 
like  a  mangy  dog's!" 

But  the  skeptic  remarked: 

"I  do  not  deny  it.  Perhaps,  you  really  did  see 
the  devils.  Only,  when  they  were  breaking  up  the 
image  of  Zeus  in  Gaza  the  other  day,  there  were 
no  devils  in  him,  but  all  sorts  of  rubbish,  that  it  is  a 
shame  to  speak  of.  Outwardly,  he  was  terrible  and 
mighty;  ivory,  gold,  with  lightning  in  his  hands. 
And  inside,  spiders'  webs,  rats,  dust,  rotting  beams, 
iron  bars,  nails,  stinking  tar,  and  the  devil  knows 
what  rubbish  more.  Those  are  the  gods  for  you!" 

At  the  same  moment,  lamblichus,  terrified,  with 


84  Julian  the  Apostate. 

eyes  starting  forth,  took  Julian  by  the  arm,  and 
led  him  to  one  side. 

"Look,  do  you  see  those  two?  They  are  spies 
from  Constantius.  You  know  they  have  already 
taken  your  brother  Gallus  away  under  a  guard  to 
Constantinople.  Take  care!  They  will  send  their 
report  to-day ." 

"What  am  I  to  do,  teacher?  I  am  used  to  it.  I 
know  they  have  been  following  me  for  a  long  time." 

"For  a  long  time?    Why  did  you  not  tell  me?" 

And  his  hand  trembled  on  Julian's  arm. 

"What  are  they  whispering  about?  Are  they 
not  heathens?" 

"Ho,  old  man!  bestir  yourself!  Bring  wood!" 
cried  a  ragged  beggar,  feeling  that  he  was  their 
master. 

lamblichus  whispered  to  Julian: 

"Let  us  despise  them,  and  submit.  Is  it  not  all 
one?  The  foolishness  of  men  cannot  injure  the 
majesty  of  the  gods!" 

And  the  godlike  one  took  a  log  of  wood  from  a 
Christian's  hands,  and  threw  it  into  the  fire.  At 
first  Julian  could  not  believe  his  eyes.  But  the 
spies  were  watching  him  now,  smiling,  steadily 
and  curiously. 

Then  weakness,  the  habit  of  hypocrisy,  con- 
tempt for  himself,  and  for  mankind,  and  an  unin- 
telligible passion  overcame  Julian's  soul.  Feeling 
the  eyes  of  the  spies  on  his  back,  he  went  up  to  a 
bundle  of  wood,  chose  a  large  log,  and  after 
lamblichus,  threw  it  into  the  fire  on  which  the 
goddess'  incandescent  body  was  melting.  He  saw 
clearly  how  the  red-hot  silver  flowed  over  her  face, 
like  drops  of  immortal  sweat,  and  on  her  lips,  as 
before,  was  an  unconquerable  and  quiet  smile. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

SEEKING  A  SIGN. 

"Looking  at  those  men  in  black  robes,  Julian? 
They  are  the  shades  of  night, — the  shadows  of 
death.  Soon  there  will  not  be  a  single  antique 
white  robe,  a  single  piece  of  marble,  illumined  by 
the  sun.  It  is  finished." 

Thus  spoke  the  young  sophist  Antoninus,  the 
son  of  the  Egyptian  prophetess  Sosipatra,  and  the 
Neoplatonist  Edesias.  He  was  standing  with 
Julian  on  the  great  Terrace  of  the  Altar  of  Per- 
gamos,  flooded  with  sunlight,  and  enfolded  by  the 
blue  sky.  On  the  pedestal  of  the  balustrade  was 
sculptured  the  Gigantomachia,  the  war  of  the 
Titans  and  the  gods.  The  gods  were  triumphing, 
the  hoofs  of  their  winged  horses  crushed  the  ser- 
pentine feet  of  the  ancient  giants.  Antoninus 
pointed  to  the  haut-relief : 

"The  Olympians  conquered  the  Titans,  and  now 
the  gods  of  the  barbarians  are  conquering  the 
Olympians.  The  temples  are  becoming  their 
tombs,"  he  said  to  Julian. 

Antoninus  was  a  well-built  youth.  Some  traits 
of  his  body  and  face  called  to  mind  the  old 
statues. 

But  for  many  years  he  had  suffered  from  an 
incurable  sickness.  And  it  was  strange  to  see  this 
once  handsome  face  of  pure  Hellenic  type,  yellow, 
lean  with  an  expression  of  pain,  a  new  sickness, 
foreign  to  the  faces  of  the  men  of  old. 

85 


86  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"I  pray  the  gods  for  one  thing,"  continued 
Antoninus;  "that  I  may  not  see  that  night;  that 
I  may  die  before  it.  Khetoricians,  sophists,  men 
of  science,  poets,  artists,  lovers  of  Grecian  wisdom, 
all  of  us  are  out  of  place.  We  are  belated.  It  is 
finished  and  done  with." 

"And  if  it  is  not  yet  finished,"  murmured 
Julian,  as  if  speaking  to  himself. 

"No,  it  is  finished!  We  are  sickly.  We  have 
no  force." 

The  face  of  nineteen-year-old  Julian  seemed 
almost  as  pale  and  thin  as  that  of  Antoninus.  His 
protruding  lower  lip  gave  him  an  expression  of 
gloomy  pride.  His  thick  brows  were  knit  with 
obstinate  and  stern  intensity.  Early  wrinkles 
showed  close  to  his  ugly,  large  nose.  His  eyes,  as 
strange  as  ever,  glowed  with  a  dry,  unpleasant, 
and  feverish  fire.  He  wore  the  robe  of  a  lay- 
brother.  By  day,  as  before,  he  visited  churches 
and  the  tombs  of  the  martyrs,  and  read  the  Holy 
Scriptures  from  the  ambo,  preparing  for  the 
monastic  tonsure.  Sometimes  this  hypocrisy 
seemed  useless  to  him.  He  knew  what  fate  had 
overtaken  Gallus,  and  he  knew  that  his  brother 
could  not  escape  death.  And  he  himself  lived, 
day  after  day,  and  month  after  month,  in  expecta- 
tion of  death. 

Julian  passed  his  nights  in  the  library  of  Per- 
gamos,  where  he  studied  the  famous  work  of  the 
orator  Libanius,  the  greatest  opponent  of  Chris- 
tianity. He  attended  the  lessons  of  the  Greek 
sophists,  Edesias  of  Pergamos,  Chrysantheus  of 
Sardis,  Priscus  of  Thesprotia,  Eusebius  of  Hindus, 
Proeresias,  and  Nymphidian. 

They  spoke  to  him  of  what  he  had  already  heard 


Seeking  a  Sign.  87 

from  lamblichus:  the  Triad,  of  the  Neoplatonists, 
and  the  sacred  ecstasy.  He  thought:  "All  this  is 
not  what  I  am  in  search  of.  They  are  hiding  the 
heart  of  the  matter  from  me/' 

Priscus,  imitating  Pythagoras,  had  passed  five 
years  in  silence,  ate  nothing  that  had  life,  and 
wore  neither  woolen  cloth,  nor  leather  sandals. 
His  garments  were  made  of  vegetable  substances 
only,  like  his  food.  He  wore  a  Pythagorean  cloak, 
of  pure  white  linen,  and  sandals  of  palm-leaf.  "In 
our  century,"  he  said,  "the  chief  thing  is  to  be 
able  to  keep  silence,  and  to  learn  how  to  die  with 
dignity."  And  Priscus,  despising  all,  with  dignity 
awaited  what  he  considered  to  be  destruction:  the 
final  victory  of  the  Christians  over  the  Hellenes. 

The  cunning  and  cautious  Chrysantheus,  when 
the  gods  were  spoken  of,  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven, 
asserting  that  he  did  not  venture  to  say  anything 
about  them,  as  he  knew  nothing,  and  what  he  had 
formerly  known  he  had  long  forgotten,  and  ad- 
vised others  to  forget.  Of  magic,  wonders,  visions, 
he  would  not  hear  a  word,  asserting  that  all  this 
was  but  unlawful  jugglery,  forbidden  by  the 
emperor's  decrees. 

Julian  ate  poorly,  slept  little,  and  his  blood 
boiled  with  passionate  impatience.  Every  morn- 
ing, on  awaking,  he  asked  himself:  "May  it  not 
be  to-day?" 

He  wearied  the  poor  frightened  theurgists  and 
philosophers  with  his  questions  of  the  mysteries 
and  miracles.  Many  of  them  laughed  at  him, 
especially  Chrysantheus.  He  had  a  cunning,  fox- 
like  smile,  and  the  habit  of  agreeing  with  opinions 
which  he  held  to  be  the  greatest  folly. 


88  Julian  tlie  Apostate. 

Once  Edesias,  a  wise  old  man,  timid  and  gentle, 
taking  pity  on  Julian,  said: 

"My  child!  I  want  to  die  in  peace.  You  are 
still  young.  Leave  me  alone.  Go  to  my  pupils. 
They  will  reveal  everything  to  you.  Yes,  there 
are  many  things  which  we  dare  not  speak  of. 
When  you  are  initiated  in  the  mysteries,  perhaps 
you  will  be  ashamed  that  you  were  born  'only  a 
human  being,'  and  that  you  so  remained." 

Eusebius  of  Hindus,  a  disciple  of  Edesias,  was 
a  man  of  jealous  and  bilious  character. 

"There  are  no  more  miracles,"  he  announced  to 
Julian,  "and  so  do  not  look  for  any.  The  gods 
axe  tired  of  mankind.  Magic  is  nonsense!  Only 
fools  believe  in  it.  But  if  you  are  tired  of  wisdom, 
and  are  determined  to  be  deceived,  go  to  Maximus. 

He  despises  our  dialectics,  and ,  but  I 

will  not  speak  ill  of  a  friend.  Better  listen  to  what 
took  place  not  long  ago,  in  an  underground  shrine 
of  Hecate,  whither  Maximus  brought  us,  to  show 
us  his  art.  When  we  had  entered,  and  had  prayed 
to  the  goddess,  he  said:  'Be  seated,  and  you  will 
see  a  miracle.'  We  sat  down.  He  threw  a  grain 
of  incense  on  the  altar,  and  muttered  something, — 
probably  a  hymn.  And  we  saw  clearly  how  the 
image  of  Hecate  smiled.  Maximus  said:  'Do  not 
fear,  you  will  see  in  a  moment  how  both  lamps  in 
the  hands  of  the  goddess  will  light  of  themselves. 
Look,'  and  he  had  not  had  time  to  finish  speaking 
when  the  lamps  flashed  up." 

"It  was  a  miracle!"  cried  Julian. 

"Yes,  yes.  We  were  so  full  of  bewilderment 
that  we  fell  on  our  faces.  But  as  I  was  going  out 
of  the  temple,  I  thought  to  myself:  'Well,  is  what 
Maximus  is  doing  worthy  of  the  philosophy?  Bead 


Maximus  tlie  Ephesiaii.  89 

the  books,  read  Pythagoras,  Plato,  Porphyry; 
there  you  will  find  wisdom.  Is  not  the  cleansing 
of  the  heart  by  divine  dialectics  more  lovely  than 
any  miracle?" 

Julian  was  no  longer  listening.  With  glowing 
eyes  he  was  watching  Eusebius'  sallow,  bilious  face, 
and  leaving  his  school,  he  said: 

"Keep  your  books  and  dialectics!  I  want  life 
and  faith!  And  can  there  be  faith  without 
miracles?  I  thank  you,  Eusebius.  You  have 
shown  me  the  man  I  have  long  been  seeking." 

The  sophist  looked  at  him  with  a  bitter  smile, 
and  said,  as  Julian  turned  to  go: 

"Well,  nephew  of  Constantine,  you  have  not 
gone  far  from  your  ancestors.  Socrates  did  not 
need  wonders  in  order  to  believe." 


CHAPTER  X. 

MAXIMUS  THE  EPHESIAN. 

Exactly  at  midnight,  in  the  ante-room  of  the 
great  hall  of  the  mysteries,  Julian  laid  aside  the 
garment  of  a  lay-brother,  and  the  mystagogues, 
the  priests  consecrated  in  the  mysteries,  robed  him 
in  the  garment  of  the  hierophants,  made  of  the 
fibers  of  white  Egyptian  papyrus.  They  put  a 
palm-branch  in  his  hand.  His  feet  remained  bare. 

He  entered  a  long,  low  hall. 

A  double  row  of  thick  columns  of  bronze,  of  a 
peculiar  greenish  color,  held  up  the  roof.  Each 
column  represented  two  intertwined  snakes.  A 
metallic  smell  came  from  the  bronze  columns. 


90  Julian  the  Apostate. 

Beside  the  columns  stood  censors,  on  thin,  tall 
legs.  On  them  nickered  tongues  of  flame,  and 
wreathes  of  white  smoke  filled  the  hall. 

At  the  far  end  faintly  glimmered  two  golden- 
winged  Assyrian  bulls.  They  supported  a  splendid 
throne.  On  it  was  seated  the  chief  hierophant, 
Maximus  of  Ephesus,  like  a  god,  in  a  long,  black 
robe,  embroidered  with  gold,  and  heavy  with  emer- 
alds and  carbuncles. 

The  slow  voice  of  the  hierodyle  announced  the 
beginning  of  the  mysteries: 

"If  there  are  in  this  assembly  any  godless,  or 
Christians,  or  Epicureans,  let  them  depart!" 

Julian  had  been  told  the  initiate's  answer.  He 
replied: 

"Christians,  let  them  depart!" 

The  choir  of  hierodyles,  hidden  in  the  darkness, 
chanted  in  a  melancholy  voice: 

"Christians,  let  them  depart!  Let  the  godless 
depart ." 

Then  twenty  boys  appeared  from  the  darkness. 
They  were  naked.  In  the  hands  of  each  gleamed 
a  silver,  semi-circular  sistrum,  like  the  sickle  of 
the  new  moon.  Only  the  ends  of  the  sickle  were 
united  in  a  complete  circumference,  and  to  them 
fine  points  were  fastened,  which  trembled  at  the 
slightest  movement.  The  boys  all  at  once  raised 
these  musical  instruments  above  their  heads,  and 
struck  them  with  a  uniform,  graceful  movement 
of  their  fingers,  and  the  sistrums  resounded  with 
a  melancholy  and  languorous  sound. 

Maximus  made  a  sign. 

Someone  approached  Julian  from  behind,  and 
tightly  bandaging  his  eyes,  said: 


Maximus  the  Ephesian.  91 

"Go!  Fear  neither  water,  nor  fire,  nor  spirit, 
nor  body,  nor  life,  nor  death." 

He  was  led  forward.  Apparently,  an  iron  door 
was  opened.  He  was  allowed  to  pass  through  it. 
Close  air  blew  in  his  face;  under  his  feet  were 
slippery,  abrupt  steps. 

He  began  to  descend  an  apparently  endless 
staircase.  There  was  a  silence  as  of  death.  The 
air  smelt  of  mildew.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
must  be  deep  under  the  ground. 

The  staircase  ended.  ISTow  he  passed  along  a 
narrow  corridor.  He  could  feel  the  walls  with 
his  hands. 

Suddenly  his  bare  feet  felt  a  dampness.  There 
was  a  sound  of  murmuring  streams.  The  water 
covered  his  feet.  He  continued  to  advance.  With 
every  step,  the  level  of  the  water  rose,  reaching  his 
ankles,  then  his  knees,  and  at  last  his  waist.  His 
teeth  chattered  with  cold.  He  continued  to  go 
forward.  The  water  reached  his  breast.  He 
thought:  "Perhaps  this  is  a  trick;  does  Maximus 
want  to  kill  me  to  please  Constantius?"  But  he 
still  went  forward. 

The  water  began  to  decrease. 

Suddenly  heat,  as  from  a  forge,  blew  in  his  face. 
The  ground  began  to  burn  his  feet.  He  seemed 
to  be  approaching  a  huge,  red-hot  furnace.  The 
blood  beat  in  his  temples.  Sometimes  it  became 
so  hot  that  he  thought  a  torch  was  held  close  to 
his  face,  or  a  red-hot  iron.  He  continued  to 
advance. 

The  heat  diminished.  But  his  breathing  was 
checked  by  a  heavy  stench.  He  struck  against 
something  round,  then  another  and  another.  By 


92  Julian  the  Apostate. 

the  smell,  he  guessed  that  they  were  skulls  and 
bones. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  someone  was  walking 
beside  him,  gliding  silently,  like  a  shade.  A  cold 
hand  grasped  his  hand.  He  uttered  a  cry.  Then 
two  hands  began  to  clutch  at  him,  and  catch  hold 
of  his  robe.  He  felt  the  dry  skin  of  them  like  a 
husk,  and  the  bare  bones  underneath.  In  the  way 
these  hands  caught  at  his  robe,  there  was  a  repul- 
sive caress  like  the  caresses  of  lascivious  women. 
Julian  felt  someone's  breath  on  his  cheek.  In  it, 
there  was  an  odor  of  decay,  a  dampness  of  the 
tomb.  And  suddenly  at  his  very  ear,  a  quick 
whisper,  like  the  rustling  of  autumn  leaves  at  mid- 
night, murmured: 

"It  is  I,  it  is  I!  Do  you  not  recognize  me?  It 
is  I!" 

"Who  are  you?"  he  asked,  and  remembered  that 
he  was  breaking  his  vow  of  silence. 

"It  is  I.  If  you  wish  it,  I  will  take  the  bandage 
from  your  eyes,  and  you  will  know  all.  You  will 
see  me?" 

The  bony  hands  moved  over  his  face,  to  take 
away  the  bandage  with  the  same  horrid,  joyous 
rapidity. 

The  chill  of  death  pierced  to  his  heart,  and 
involuntarily,  by  force  of  habit,  he  crossed  himself 
three  times,  as  he  had  done  in  childhood,  when  he 
dreamed  a  horrible  dream. 

There  was  a  sound  of  thunder;  the  earth  swayed 
beneath  his  feet;  he  felt  that  he  was  falling,  and 
lost  consciousness. 

When  Julian  came  to  himself,  the  bandages 
were  no  longer  on  his  eyes,  and  he  was  lying  on 
soft  cushions,  in  a  huge,  dimly-lighted  grotto. 


Maximus  the  Ephesian.  93 

They  gave  him  a  kerchief  to  smell,  impregnated 
with  strong  perfumes. 

Opposite  Julian's  couch  stood  a  lean  and  naked 
man,  with  a  dusky  skin.  He  was  an  Indian  Gyni- 
nosophist,  the  assistant  of  Maximus.  He  held  a 
shining  circle  of  metal  motionless  above  his  head. 
Someone  said  to  Julian: 

"Look!" 

And  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  a  metal  disk,  which 
shone  with  a  painful  brightness.  He  looked  long, 
and  the  outlines  of  surrounding  objects  began  to 
melt  away  in  a  mist.  He  felt  a  pleasant,  soothing 
weakness  steal  through  his  limbs.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  the  bright  disk  shone  not  outside  him, 
but  in  him.  His  eyelids  sank  down,  and  on  his 
lips  played  a  tired  and  submissive  smile.  He  gave 
himself  up  to  adoration  of  the  light. 

Someone  passed  a  hand  several  times  over  his 
face,  and  asked  him: 

"Are  you  asleep?" 

"Yes." 

"Look  into  my  eyes." 

Julian  lifted  his  lids  with  an  effort,  and  saw 
that  Maximus  was  bending  over  him. 

He  was  an  old  man  of  seventy.  A  beard,  white 
as  snow,  fell  almost  to  his  belt.  His  hair,  falling 
on  his  shoulders,  had  a  faint  gleam  of  gold 
through  its  whiteness.  On  his  cheeks,  and  on  his 
forehead  were  dark,  clearly-marked  wrinkles, 
showing  not  suffering,  but  strength  of  will,  and 
wisdom.  But  Maximus'  eyes  fascinated  Julian 
more  than  all.  Beneath  grey,  overhanging  brows, 
small,  glittering  and  bright,  they  had  a  piercing 
look  of  mockery  and  tenderness  combined.  The 
hierophant  asked: 


94  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"Dost  thou  wish  to  behold  the  mighty  Titan?" 

"I  do/'  replied  Julian. 

"Behold!"    - 

And  the  magician  directed  his  gaze  to  the 
depths  of  the  grotto,  where  stood  a  tripod  of 
golden  bronze:  above  it  rose  a  whole  cloud  of  white 
smoke  in  great  curling  wreaths.  A  voice  sounded, 
like  the  voice  of  a  storm,  till  all  the  grotto  rang: 

"Hercules!    Hercules!  set  me  free!" 

The  blue  sky  gleamed  between  the  opening 
clouds  of  smoke.  Julian  lay  with  pale,  motionless 
face,  with  half-closed  lids,  and  was  conscious  of 
swift,  fleeting  images,  moving  before  him,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  did  not  see  them  of  himself, 
but  that  someone  commanded  him  to  see  them. 

As  in  a  dream,  he  saw  clouds  and  snowy  moun- 
tains. Somewhere  down  below,  in  an  abyss,  the 
sea  was  moaning.  He  saw  a  huge  form.  His 
hands  and  feet  were  fastened  to  the  rock  with 
chains.  A  vulture  was  tearing  at  his  vitals.  Drops 
of  dark  blood  dripped  from  his  side.  The  chains 
rang,  as  he  writhed  in  anguish: 

"Free  me,  Hercules!" 

And  the  Titan  raised  his  shaggy  head:  his  eyes 
met  the  eyes  of  the  sleeper. 

"Who  art  thou?  Whom  dost  thou  call  for?" 
asked  Julian,  with  a  strong  effort,  like  one  speak- 
ing in  sleep. 

"Thee." 

"I  am  a  weak  mortal." 

"Thou  art  my  brother!    Set  me  free!" 

"Who  forged  thy  chains  anew?" 

"Humble,  timid  slaves,  who  forgive  their  ene- 
mies— from  fear!  Set  me  free!" 

"How  can  I?" 


Maximus  the  Ephesian.  95 

"Become  as  I  am!" 

The  clouds  grew  dark  and  heavy,  the  thunder 
muttered  in  the  distance.  Lightning  flashed. 
The  vulture  uttered  a  cry.  Drops  of  blood 
dripped  from  his  beak.  But  louder  than  the 
thunder  rose  the  voice  of  the  Titan: 

"Hercules,  set  me  free!" 

Then  the  clouds  of  smoke  hid  everything  again, 
as  they  rose  from  the  tripod. 

Julian  came  to  himself  in  a  moment.  The 
hierophant  asked: 

"Dost  thou  wish  to  behold  the  Adversary?" 

"I  do." 

"Look." 

Julian  again  half-closed  his  eyes,  and  gave  him- 
self up  to  the  light  enchantment  of  sleep. 

In  the  white  smoke  appeared  a  faint  outline  of 
a  head  and  two  huge  wings.  The  feathers  hung 
drooping,  like  the  branches  of  a  weeping  yew,  and 
a  bluish  light  gleamed  fitfully  on  them.  Someone 
called  him  in  a  far-away,  faint  voice,  like  a  dying 
friend: 

"Julian,  Julian,  in  my  name  renounce  the  Gali- 
lean!" 

Julian  was  silent. 

Maximus  whispered  to  him:  "If  thou  wouldst 
see  the  mighty  Angel,  renounce!"  Then  Julian 
answered: 

"I  renounce!" 

Above  the  head  of  the  apparition,  through  the 
mist,  shone  the  morning  star,  the  star  of  Aurora. 
And  the  Angel  repeated: 

"Julian,  in  my  name,  renounce  the  Galilean!" 

"I  renounce!" 

And  for  the  third  time  the  Angel  spoke,  in  a 


90  Julian  the  Apostate. 

voice  that  was  now  loud,  near,  and  triumphant: 
"Kenounce!"  And  for  the  third  time  Julian 
repeated: 

"I  renounce!" 

And  the  Angel  said: 

"Come  to  me!" 

"Who  art  thou?" 

"I  am  the  Bringer  of  Light!  I  am  the  East,  I 
am  the  Morning  Star!" 

"How  beautiful  thou  art!" 

"Be  like  unto  me!" 

"What  sadness  is  in  thine  eyes!" 

"I  suffer  for  all  that  live.  Neither  birth  nor 
death  are  needful.  Come  to  me!  I  am  the 
shadow,  I  am  rest,  I  am  freedom." 

"How  do  men  name  thee?" 

"Evil." 

"Thou  art  evil?" 

"I  revolted." 

"Against  whom?" 

"Against  Him,  whose  equal  I  am.  He  wished 
to  be  alone,  but  we  are  twain." 

"Grant  me  to  be  like  thee!" 

"Eevolt,  as  I  did.    I  will  give  thee  strength!" 

"Teach  me  how!" 

"Break  the  law.  Love  thyself.  Curse  Him,  and 
be  as  I  am." 

The  Angel  disappeared.  A  gust  of  cold  air 
blew;  the  flame  of  the  tripod  quivered.  First  it 
sank  to  the  ground,  lapping  along  it,  then  the 
tripod  was  overturned  by  the  wind,  and  the  flame 
was  extinguished.  In  the  darkness  was  heard  a 
stamping,  a  sound  of  cries  and  footsteps,  as  if  an 
invisible  army,  fleeing  before  the  foe,  was  rushing 
through  the  air.  Julian,  overcome  with  terror, 


Maximus  the  Ephesian.  97 

fell  with  his  face  to  the  ground,  and  the  hiero- 
phant's  long,  black  robe  struck  against  him  in  the 
wind.  "Flee,  flee!"  cried  innumerable  voices. 
"The  gates  of  Hell  are  thrown  open.  It  is  He; 
it  is  He,  it  is  He,  the  Conqueror!" 

The  wind  whistled  in  Julian's  ears.    And  legion 
after  legion  crowded  past  him.     Then  suddenly, 
after  a  sound  of  thunder  beneath  the  earth,  silence 
descended    over   all,    and    a   heavenly    freshness 
spread  through  it,  as  in  the  middle  of  a  quiet 
summer  night.    Then  a  voice  resounded: 
"Saul,  Saul,  why  persecutest  thou  Me?" 
It  seemed  to  Julian  that  he  had  already  heard 
that    voice    somewhere    in    dim,    unremembered 
childhood. 

Then  again,  but  lower,  as  if  from  afar: 
"Saul,  Saul,  why  persecutest  thou  Me?" 
And  the  voice  faded  away  to  such  a  distance 
that  it  spoke  with  a  hardly  audible  sigh: 
"Saul,  Saul,  why  persecutest  thou  Me?" 
When  Julian  awoke,  and  raised  his  face  from 
the  ground,  he  saw  that  one  of  the  hierodyles  was 
lighting  the  lamp.    He  felt  dizzy.    But  he  clearly 
remembered  everything  that  had  happened,  as  ono 
remembers  a  vivid  dream. 

They  bandaged  his  eyes  again,  and  gave  him  a 
draught  of  spiced  wine.  He  felt  strength  and 
lightness  course  through  his  limbs. 

They  led  him  up  the  stair.    His  hand  was  now 
in  Maximus'  strong  hand.     To  Julian,  it  seemed 
that  an  invisible  force  was  lifting  him  up  the 
steps,  as  if  on  wings.    The  hierophant  said: 
"Ask!" 

"Did  you  call  Him?"  questioned  Julian. 
"No,  but  when  one  string  on  the  lyre  trembles, 


98  Julian  the  Apostate. 

the  other  answers  to  it.  Opposite  answers  to  oppo- 
site." 

"Why  is  there  such  power  in  His  words,  if  they 
are  a  lie?" 

"They  are  truth." 

"What?— you  mean  that  the  Titan  and  the 
Angel  are  lies?" 

"They  also  are  truth." 

"Two  truths?" 

"Two.    All  things  are  dual." 

"You  are  deluding  me." 

"Not  I,  but  the  full  truth  is  misleading  and 
strange.  If  you  are  afraid,  be  silent." 

"I  am  not  afraid.  Tell  me  all.  Are  the  Gali- 
leans right?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  then  did  I  renounce  Him?" 

"There  is  yet  another  right." 

"A  higher?" 

"N"o,  equal  to  that  which  you  renounced." 

"But  what  am  I  to  believe  in?  Where  is  the 
God  whom  I  seek?" 

"Both  here  and  there.  Serve  Ahriman,  serve 
Ormuzd, — whichever  you  please;  but  remember 
that  the  kingdom  of  Lucifer  is  equal  to  the  king- 
dom of  God." 

"Whither  must  I  go?" 

"Choose  one  of  the  two  ways,  and  do  not  hesi- 
tate." 

"Which?" 

"If  you  believe  in  Him,  take  up  your  cross,  and 
follow  Him,  as  He  commanded.  Be  humble,  be 
chaste,  be  the  lamb,  dumb  before  the  slaughterers. 
Flee  into  the  desert,  give  up  flesh  and  blood  and 
reason  for  Him;  endure;  believe.  That  is  one  of 


Maximus  the  Ephesiari.  i)t> 

the  two  ways:  the  great  ascetic  Galileans  attain 
the  same  liberty  as  Prometheus  and  Lucifer." 

"That  way  I  cannot  choose/' 

"Then  choose  the  other.  Be  mighty,  be  like 
the  stern  men  of  old.  Be  strong,  be  proud,  be 
implacable,  be  splendid.  Pity  not,  love  not, 
pardon  not.  Kevolt,  and  conquer  all.  Let  your 
body  be  as  the  bodies  of  the  marble  demigods. 
Take,  and  give  not.  Taste  the  forbidden  fruit, 
and  repent  not.  Believe  not,  and  acknowledge  it. 
And  the  world  will  be  yours,  and  you  will  be  like 
the  Titan,  and  the  Angel,  who  revolted  against 
Him." 

"But  I  cannot  believe  that  in  the  words  of  the 
Galilean  there  is  also  truth.  And  I  cannot  endure 
two  truths." 

"If  you  cannot,  you  will  be  as  all  are.  Better 
perish.  But  you  can.  Dare!  You  will  be  Roman 
emperor!" 

"I — emperor?" 

"You  will  have  a  power  in  your  hands  that 
Alexander  of  Macedon  did  not  possess." 

Julian  felt  that  they  were  leaving  the  under- 
ground vault,  and  coming  forth  to  the  fresh  air. 
A  free  morning  breeze  from  the  sea  breathed 
around  them.  He  did  not  see,  but  divined  the 
endlessness  of  the  sea  and  sky  around  him. 

The  hierophant  took  the  bandage  from  his  eyes. 
They  were  standing  on  a  lofty  marble  tower.  It 
was  the  astronomical  observatory  of  the  great 
theurgist,  like  the  towers  of  the  ancient  Chal- 
deans, built  on  a  huge  overhanging  promontory, 
above  the  sea.  Below  it  were  the  luxurious  villa 
and  gardens  of  Maximus,  palaces  and  propylas, 
recalling  the  colonnades  of  Persepolis.  Further 


100  Julian  the  Apostate. 

away,  in  the  mist,  were  Artemisium,  and  many- 
pillared  Ephesus.  Further  still,  to  the  east,  the 
mountains.  To  the  west,  the  south,  the  north, 
spread  the  quiet  sea,  limitless,  misty,  deep  blue, 
all  tremulous  and  smiling  for  the  coming  of  the 
sun.  They  stood  at  such  a  height  that  Julian's 
head  swam.  He  had  to  lean  on  Maximus'  arm  for 
support.  The  rising  sun  shone  forth  from  hehind 
the  mountains;  Julian  half  closed  his  eyes  with 
a  smile,  and  the  sun  touched  his  white,  conse- 
crated robe  with  its  first  pale  rose,  and  then 
crimson  ray. 

The  hierophant  stretched  forth  his  hand  to  the 
horizon,  and  pointed  to  the  land  and  sea. 

"Look,  it  is  all  yours!" 

"Have  I  the  power,  teacher?  I  expect  death 
daily.  I  am  weak  and  sickly." 

"The  sun,  the  god  Mithra,  crowns  you  with  his 
purple!  It  is  the  purple  of  the  Roman  emperor. 
All  is  yours.  Dare!" 

"What  good  is  all  to  me,  if  there  is  not  one 
truth?— the  one  God,  whom  I  seek?" 

"Find  Him,  if  you  can;  unite  the  truth  of  the 
Titan  with  the  truth  of  the  Galilean,  and  you  will 
be  greater  than  any  man  upon  earth,  of  woman 
born." 


CHAPTER  XI. 
CALLUS  A  PRISONER. 

Julian  visited  his  unhappy  brother  Gallus, 
when  the  latter  stopped  at  Constantinople,  on  his 
journey  to  Milan. 

He  found  him  surrounded  by  a  treacherous 
guard  of  Constantius'  minions.  The  questor 
Leontius  was  there,  a  crafty  and  cultivated  court 
fop,  who  was  famed  for  the  not  insignificant  art 
of  listening  at  doors  and  extorting  information 
from  slaves;  the  tribune  Bainobaudes,  chief  of  the 
shield-bearing  scutarii,  a  silent,  impenetrable  bar- 
barian who  looked  like  a  disguised  executioner; 
Lucillianus,  the  powerful  master  of  ceremonies  of 
the  emperor,  the  "comes  domesticorum;"  and,. 
finally,  Scudilo,  who  had  once  been  military  trib- 
une in  Cesarea  of  Cappadocia,  and  now,  thanks  to 
the  protection  of  certain  old  ladies,  had  received 
a  coveted  position  at  court. 

Gallus,  as  usual,  was  healthy,  gay,  light-minded, 
and  treated  Julian  to  a  splendid  supper.  He  was 
especially  proud  of  a  fat  pheasant  from  Colchis, 
garnished  with  fresh  figs  from  the  Thebaid.  He 
laughed  like  a  child,  and  talked  of  Macellum. 
Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  their  conversation, 
Julian  asked  about  Gallus'  wife,  Constantina. 

Gallus'  face  changed.  He  let  his  fingers,  which 
were  lifting  a  white,  juicy  piece  of  pheasant  to  his 
mouth,  fall  again.  His  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Do  you  not  know,  Julian?"  he  answered, 

101 


102  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"Constantina  died  suddenly  of  a  malignant  fever, 
on  her  way  to  the  emperor,  at  Gallician  Caene,  a 
little  town  in  Bithynia.  I  wept  two  whole  nights 
when  I  heard  of  her  death." 

He  looked  at  the  door  hesitatingly,  then  ap- 
proached Julian,  and  whispered  in  his  ear: 

"Since  that,  I  have  thrown  everything  over- 
board. She  alone  could  have  saved  me.  Brother, 
she  was  a  wonderful  woman!  Without  her  I  am 
ruined.  I  can  do  nothing,  and  understand  noth- 
ing. I  simply  let  my  hands  fall.  They  do  what 
they  will  with  me." 

He  drank  a  great  cup  of  undiluted  wine  at  a 
single  draught. 

Julian  remembered  Constantina,  a  widow  no 
longer  young,  Constantius'  sister,  who  had  been 
his  brother's  evil  genius;  he  thought  of  the  innu- 
merable base  and  foolish  crimes  which  she  had 
led  him  to  commit,  sometimes  simply  for  an 
expensive  trifle,  some  long-promised  necklace;  and 
he  asked,  trying  to  guess  what  power  could  have 
subjected  him  to  that  woman: 

"Was  she  beautiful?" 

"Did  you  never  see  her?  No,  she  was  not  beau- 
tiful, even  very  ugly.  She  was  dusky,  pock- 
marked, short;  she  had  bad  teeth, — a  thing  I  can- 
not endure  in  women.  But  then,  knowing  her 
weak  points,  she  avoided  laughing.  They  say 
that  she  used  to  deceive  me.  But  what  had  that 
to  do  with  me?  Did  I  not  deceive  her?  She  did 
not  prevent  my  enjoying  life,  and  I  did  not  pre- 
vent her.  They  say  my  dead  wife  was  cruel.  Yes, 
Julian,  she  knew  how  to  rule!  She  had  no  love 
for  the  makers  of  epigrams  and  street  verses,  in 
which  the  rascals  sometimes  blamed  her  for  bad 


Callus  a  Prisoner.  103 

manners,  and  compared  her  to  a  kitchen  slave, 
dressed  up  as  Cesar's  wife.  She  loved  revenge! 
What  a  mind,  Julian,  what  a  mind  she  had. 
Beside  her  I  was  as  safe  as  if  I  had  been  behind  a 
stone  wall.  And  what  a  time  we  had  of  merry- 
making! To  our  hearts'  content!" 

He  smiled  at  his  pleasant  memories,  and  silently 
licked  his  red  lips  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue, 
which  were  still  wet  with  Chian  wine. 

"Yes,  there  is  no  denying  it,  we  had  our  fes- 
tival!" he  concluded,  not  without  pride. 

When  Julian  had  come  to  this  meeting,  he  had 
hoped  to  arouse  a  feeling  of  repentance  in  his 
brother,  and  had  prepared  a  speech  against 
tyrants,  in  the  style  of  Libanius.  He  expected  to 
find  a  victim,  pursued  by  the  scourge  of  Nemesis; 
but  he  saw  before  him  the  peaceful,  sleek  face  of 
an  overfed  Greek  athlete.  The  words  died  on 
Julian's  lips.  He  looked  without  the  slightest 
antipathy  or  anger  on  the  "good-natured  animal" 
(as  he  mentally  called  his  brother),  and  thought 
that  it  would  be  as  out  of  place  to  read  him  a 
lecture  as  if  he  had  been  a  handsome  young  stal- 
lion. Julian  only  asked  in  a  whisper,  glancing 
toward  the  door  in  his  turn: 

"Why  are  you  going  to  Mediolanum?  Can  you 
not  guess?" 

"Do  not  say  it.  I  know.  But  I  cannot  turn 
back.  It  is  too  late/' 

He  pointed  to  his  white  neck. 

"Death's  noose  is  here, — do  you  understand? 
And  he  gently  pulls  at  it.  He  would  dig  me  up 
from  beneath  the  earth,  Julian!  There  is  no  use 
talking.  It  is  finished.  We  have  had  our  merry- 
making, and  now  it  is  over." 


104  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"You  had  two  legions  left  in  Antioch." 

"Not  even  one.  He  took  away  all  my  best  sol- 
diers, little  by  little,  slowly,  and  all  for  my  own 
glory!  How  he  cared  for  me,  how  he  concerned 
himself  about  me,  how  he  thirsted  for  my  coun- 
sels! Julian,  he  is  a  terrible  man.  You  do  not 
know,  and  God  grant  that  you  may  not  know, 
what  a  man  he  is.  He  sees  everything,  he  can  see 
ten  cubits  into  the  earth.  He  knows  my  most 
secret  thoughts  which  my  own  pillow  does  not 
even  know.  And  he  sees  through  you,  too.  I 
dread  him,  brother!" 

"Can  you  not  run  away?" 

"Softly,  hush!    What  are  you  saying?" 

A  school-boy's  fear  of  punishment  was  expressed 
in  Gallus'  indolent,  soft  features. 

"No,  of  course  not!  I  am  like  a  fish  on  the 
hook.  He  is  pulling  in  gently,  so  as  not  to  break 
the  line.  And  Ca3sar,  whoever  he  may  be,  is  a 
pretty  heavy  fish.  But  I  know  that  I  cannot  break 
away.  Sooner  or  later  he  will  land  me.  I  see, — 
how  could  I  not  see,  that  it  is  a  trap?  But  I  go 
into  it,  of  my  own  accord,  through  fear.  These  six 
years,  and  earlier,  too,  ever  since  I  remember  my- 
self, I  have  lived  in  fear  of  him.  Enough!  The 
boy  has  had  what  was  his,  he  has  played  his  game, 
and  now  it  is  over.  Brother,  he  will  cut  my  throat, 
as  the  cook  cuts  the  throat  of  a  fat  chicken.  But 
first  he  will  torment  me  by  craft  and  caresses.  The 
sooner  the  better." 

Suddenly  a  flash  came  into  his  eyes. 

"But  if  she  was  here  with  me,  now,  what  do 
you  think,  brother?  She  would  have  saved  me, — 
she  would  certainly  have  saved  me!  That  is  why 


Gallus  a  Prisoner.  105 

I  say  she  was  a  wonderful  and  extraordinary 
woman!" 

The  tribune,  Scudilo,  entering  the  triclinium 
with  a  servile  bow,  announced  that  on  the  morrow, 
in  honor  of  the  Caesar's  presence,  races  had  been 
arranged  in  the  hippodrome  of  Constantinople,  in 
which  the  famous  rider,  Corax,  would  take  part. 
Gallus  was  delighted.  He  ordered  a  laurel  wreath 
to  be  prepared,  to  crown  his  favorite  Corax,  with 
his  own  hand,  if  he  should  be  victorious.  The 
talk  turned  to  horses,  races,  and  the  skill  of 
famous  drivers. 

Gallus  drank  much,  and  there  was  not  a  trace 
of  his  recent  fear;  he  laughed  his  open  and  light- 
hearted  laughter  like  a  healthy  man  with  an  easy 
conscience. 

Only  at  the  moment  of  leave-taking,  as  he 
warmly  embraced  Julian,  his  eyes  filled  with  tears: 

"God  spare  you,  God  spare  you,"  he  murmured, 
falling  into  excessive  sensibility,  perhaps  from  the 
wine,  "I  know  you  alone  loved  me,  you  and  Con- 
stantina." 

Then  he  whispered  in  Julian's  ear: 

"I  hope  you  will  save  yourself,  brother.  You 
know  how  to  dissemble.  I  always  envied  you. 
Well,  God  spare  you." 

Julian  felt  sorry  for  him.  He  understood  that 
his  brother  could  not  get  off  Constantius'  hook. 

On  the  following  day,  Gallus  left  Constanti- 
nople with  the  same  convoy.  Not  far  from  the 
city  gates,  Taurus,  the  recently-appointed  questor 
of  Armenia  met  him.  Taurus,  a  court  upstart, 
looked  insolently  and  mockingly  at  the  Cassar,  and 
did  not  salute  him. 


106  Julian  the  Apostate. 

Meanwhile,  letter  after  letter  came  from  the 
emperor. 

After  Adrianople,  only  ten  chariots  of  the 
imperial  post  were  left  with  Gallus.  All  his  bag- 
gage and  suite,  with  the  exception  of  two  or  three 
attendants  of  the  bed-chamber  and  table,  ministri 
tori  et  mensae,  were  left  behind. 

Late  autumn  had  come  on.  The  roads  were 
abominable.  The  rain  fell  for  days.  The  Cassar 
was  hurried  along;  no  time  was  given  him  to  rest, 
or  even  to  get  enough  sleep.  He  had  not  taken  a 
bath  for  two  weeks. 

One  of  his  greatest  torments  was  the  incessant 
and  unaccustomed  feeling  of  dirt.  All  his  life  hs 
had  carefully  tended  his  healthy,  pampered,  and 
handsome  body.  The  Csesax  looked  at  his  un- 
cleaned  and  untrimmed  nails  with  sincere  grief, 
and  also  the  royal  purple  of  his  cloak,  stained  with 
the  dust  and  dirt  of  the  high  roads. 

Scudilo  did  not  leave  him  for  a  moment.  Gallus 
had  reason  to  fear  this  attentive  fellow-traveler. 

The  tribune  who  had  just  come  with  a  commis- 
sion from  the  emperor  to  the  court  of  Antioch, 
had  offended  the  Cesar's  wife  by  a  careless  word 
or  hint;  one  of  those  fits  of  blind,  almost  mad, 
rage,  which  she  was  subject  to,  came  upon  her. 

Eumor  said  that  Constantina  had  ordered  the 
tribune  of  the  shield-bearers,  newly  sent  thither 
by  the  emperor,  to  be  punished  with  blows  of  the 
lash,  like  a  slave,  and  then  to  be  cast  into  a  dun- 
geon. 

But  others  refused  to  believe  that  even  the 
madly  passionate  wife  of  the  Cssar  was  capable  of 
such  an  unheard-of  insult  to  the  imperial  majesty, 
in  the  person  of  the  Koman  tribune. 


Callus  a  Prisoner.  107 

In  any  case,  Constantina  soon  thought  better  of 
it,  and  had  Scudilo  liberated  from  the  dungeon. 
He  appeared  again  at  the  Caesar's  court  as  if  noth- 
ing had  happened,  taking  advantage  of  the  fact 
that  no  one  knew  anything  for  certain.  He  did 
not  even  send  a  report  to  Mediolanum,  and 
silently  swallowed  the  insult,  according  to  the 
expression  of  those  who  envied  him.  Perhaps  the 
tribune  thought  that  the  rumors  of  his  shameful 
punishment  would  damage  his  future  career  at 
court. 

But  during  the  whole  journey  from  Antioch  to 
Mediolanum,  Scudilo  had  traveled  in  the  chariot 
with  the  Caesar,  not  leaving  him  for  a  moment, 
had  waited  on  him  slavishly,  had  played  with  him, 
not  leaving  him  in  peace  for  a  moment,  and  treat- 
ing him  as  an  obstinate,  sick  child,  whom  he 
(Scudilo)  was  so  devoted  to  that  he  had  not  the 
heart  to  leave  him. 

During  dangerous  river-crossings,  or  on  the 
quaking  causeways  over  the  Illyrian  marshes, 
Scudilo  firmly  upheld  Caesar's  body  with  his  arm, 
with  a  gentle  concern.  If  Gallus  tried  to  free  him- 
self, the  tribune  held  him  more  firmly,  more  ten- 
derly, asserting  that  he  would  sooner  consent  to 
die  than  to  permit  such  a  precious  life  to  run  the 
slightest  danger.  . 

The  tribune's  face  bore  a  singular,  thoughtful 
expression  when  he  looked  silently  and  sweetly  at 
Gallus'  neck,  soft  and  white  as  a  young  girl's.  The 
Caesar  felt  that  lingering  look,  and  grew  so  uncom- 
fortable that  he  turned  away.  At  that  moment, 
he  wished  to  box  the  caressing  tribune's  ears.  But 
the  poor  prisoner  soon  came  to  himself,  and  only 
asked,  in  a  pitiful  voice,  that  at  any  rate  they 


108  Julian  the  Apostate. 

should  stop  to  eat  something.  His  appetite,  in 
spite  of  everything,  was  wonderful. 

In  the  Noric  country,  in  the  city  of  Petobion, 
they  were  met  by  two  messengers  from  the  em- 
peror, Barbation  and  Apodemus,  with  a  cohort  of 
the  emperor's  bodyguard. 

Then  the  mask  was  thrown  away.  An  armed 
guard  was  posted  round  Gallus'  palace  at  night,  as 
though  it  were  a  prison. 

In  the  evening,  Barbation,  coming  to  the  Cassar, 
without  the  slightest  etiquette,  ordered  him  to 
take  off  the  Ca3sarean  cloak,  and  dress  himself  in  a 
simple  tunic  and  paludamentum.  Scudilo  at  this 
made  an  exhibition  of  his  zeal.  He  began  to  take 
the  cloak  off  Gallus  so  hastily  that  he  tore  the 
purple. 

Next  morning  they  put  the  prisoner  in  a  two- 
wheeled  post-cart,  a  carpenta,  in  which  the  inferior 
officers  of  the  government  traveled  when  on  duty. 
There  was  no  covering  to  the  carpenta.  There 
was  a  piercing  wind,  and  wet  snow  was  falling. 
Scudilo,  as  was  his  habit,  threw  one  arm  around 
Gallus,  and  began  to  finger  his  new  garment. 

"It  is  a  good  cloak,  downy  and  warm, — far 
better  than  the  purple,  in  my  opinion.  The 
purple  does  not  keep  you  warm.  But  this  cloak 
has  a  soft,  warm  lining  of  wool." 

And  as  if  to  feel  the  lining,  he  slipped  his  hand 
under  the  Caesar's  cloak,  and  inside  the  tunic,  and 
then  with  a  soft,  caressing  laugh,  he  drew  forth 
a  keen-edged  dagger,  which  Gallus  had  managed 
to  conceal  in  a  fold  of  his  tunic. 

"That  is  not  right,  not  right  at  all,"  said  Scu- 
dilo, with  a  gleeful  smile.  "You  might  cut  your- 
self somehow,  by  accident.  What  a  toy!" 


Gallus  a  Prisoner.  109 

He  threw  the  dagger  on  the  road. 

A  boundless  weariness  and  weakness  took  pos- 
session of  Gallus'  body.  He  shut  his  eyes,  and  felt 
that  Scudilo  was  still  embracing  him  with  great 
tenderness.  It  seemed  to  the  Cassar  that  he  was 
dreaming  a  horrible  dream. 

They  stopped  not  far  from  the  fortress  of  Pola 
in  Istria',  on  the  shores  of  the  Adriatic.  In  that 
same  city  a  sanguinary  atrocity  a  few  years  before 
had  been  accomplished, — the  murder  of  a  noble 
youth, — Crispus,  son  of  Constantine. 

The  city,  inhabited  only  by  soldiers,  seemed  a 
melancholy  out  of  the  way  corner.  Endless  bar- 
racks had  been  built,  in  the  style  of  Diocletian. 
Snow  lay  on  the  roofs.  The  wind  whistled  in  the 
empty  streets  and  the  sea  moaned. 

Gallus  was  taken  to  one  of  the  barracks. 

They  set  him  before  the  window,  so  that  the 
raw  wintry  light  fell  straight  into  his  eyes.  The 
most  skilful  of  the  emperor's  inquisitors,  Eusebius, 
a  small,  wrinkled,  and  suave  old  man,  began  to 
question  him  in  the  low,  furtive  voice  of  a  con- 
fessor, all  the  time  rubbing  his  hands  from  the 
cold.  Gallus  felt  a  deadly  weariness;  he  said  every- 
thing that  Eusebius  wished.  But  at  the  words 
"high  treason,"  Gallus  grew  pale,  and  jumped  up. 

"It  was  not  I,  not  I,"  he  stuttered,  foolishly  and 
im potently,  "that  was  Constantina,  only  Constan- 
tina!  I  did  nothing  without  her.  She  demanded 
the  death  of  Theophilus,  Domitian,  Clematius, 
Montius,  and  others.  God  sees  that  it  was  not  I! 
She  said  nothing  to  me.  I  did  not  even  know." 

Eusebius  looked  at  him  with  a  quiet  and  suave 
smile: 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "I  shall  tell  the  emperor 


110  Julian  the  Apostate. 

that  his  own  sister,  the  consort  of  the  former 
Cassar,  is  guilty  of  everything.  The  examination 
is  ended.  Take  him  away,"  he  commanded  the 
legionaries. 

The  sentence  of  death  was  soon  received  from 
Constantius,  who  considered  the  inculpation  of  his 
sister  in  all  the  murders  committed  at  the  court 
of  Antioch,  a  direct  insult,  offered  to  his  own 
house. 

When  they  read  the  sentence  to  Gallus  he 
fainted,  and  fell  at  the  soldiers'  feet.  The  poor 
wretch  had  hoped  for  mercy,  until  the  last  mo- 
ment. And  now  he  still  hoped  that  they  would 
at  least  give  him  a  few  days,  a  few  hours,  to  pre- 
pare for  death.  But  rumors  were  heard  that  the 
soldiers  of  the  Thehan  legion  were  mutinying,  and 
intended  to  set  Gallus  free.  He  was  led  to  execu- 
tion at  once. 

It  was  early  morning.  Snow  had  fallen  in  the 
night,  and  covered  the  black,  sticky  mud.  And 
now,  a  cold,  dead  sun  glittered  on  the  snow.  The 
dazzling  brightness  fell  on  the  stuccoed  walls  of 
the  great  barrack  hall,  whither  they  brought 
Gallus. 

They  did  not  trust  the  soldiers,  who  nearly  all 
loved  and  pitied  him.  They  chose  a  butcher  for 
an  executioner  who  had  already  put  to  death  some 
Istrian  robbers  and  thieves  in  the  square  of  Pola. 
The  barbarian  did  not  know  how  to  handle  tho 
Roman  sword,  and  so  brought  a  broad  axe  for  the 
execution;  'it  was  more  like  the  double-edged 
hatchet,  with  which  he  killed  swine  and  sheep, 
in  the  slaughter-house.  The  butcher's  face  was 
dull,  handsome,  and  sleepy.  He  was  of  Slavonic 
race.  They  did  not  tell  him  that  the  condemned 


Gallus  a  Prisoner.  Ill 

man  was  Caesar,  and  the  executioner  thought  that 
he  was  to  kill  a  robber. 

In  the  face  of  death,  Gallus  had  become  timid 
and  docile.  He  allowed  them  to  do  whatever  they 
pleased  with  him,  smiling  a  senseless  smile.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  a  little  child  restored 
to  infancy;  he  had  also  cried  and  struggled  when 
by  force  he  was  put  in  the  hot  bath  and  washed, 
but  afterward,  resigning  himself,  he  found  it  was 
pleasant. 

But  seeing  the  butcher  draw  the  broad  blade 
of  the  axe  backward  and  forward  on  a  whet-stone, 
he  trembled  in  every  limb. 

They  took  him  into  the  next  room.  There  a 
barber  carefully  cropped  his  curly,  golden  hair, 
close  to  the  skin, — the  beauty  and  pride  of  the 
young  CaGsar.  Eeturning  from  the  barber's  room, 
he  met  the  tribune  Scudilo  for  a  moment  face  to 
face  in  the  corridor.  Caesar  unexpectedly  fell  at  the 
feet  of  his  bitterest  foe: 

"Save  me,  Scudilo;  I  know  you  can!  Last  night 
I  received  a  letter  from  the  soldiers  of  the  Theban 
legion.  Let  me  speak  to  them.  They  will  set  me 
free.  In  the  treasury  of  the  Misian  cathedral  are 
thirty  talents  of  my  own.  No  one  knows  of  it.  I 
will  give  it  to  you.  I  will  give  you  more.  The 
soldiers  are  devoted  to  me.  I  will  make  you  nry 
friend,  my  brother,  my  co-ruler,  a  Caesar!" 

He  clasped  the  man's  knees,  maddened  by  hope, 
and  Scudilo  shuddered,  feeling  Caesar's  lips  touch 
his  hand.  The  tribune  made  no  answer,  but  slowly 
drew  away  his  hand,  and  looked  in  his  face  with  a 
smile. 

They  ordered  Gallus  to  take  off  his  tunic.  Ho 
did  not  wish  to  unfasten  his  sandals;  his  feet  were 


112  Julian  the  Apostate. 

dirty.  When  he  was  almost  naked  the  butcher 
began  to  tie  his  hands  behind  his  back  with  a  rope, 
as  he  had  always  done  with  the  robbers.  Scudilo 
sprang  forward  to  help  him.  But  at  the  contact 
of  his  fingers,  a  madness  came  upon  Gallus.  He 
tore  himself  from  the  executioner's  hands,  seized 
the  tribune  by  the  throat  with  both  hands,  and 
tried  to  throttle  him.  Tall,  naked,  he  looked  like 
some  strong  and  terrible  young  beast,  not  like  a 
human  being.  He  was  caught  from  behind  and 
dragged  away  from  the  tribune;  his  hands  and  feet 
were  tied. 

At  the  same  time,  below,  in  the  barrack-yard, 
the  soldiers  of  the  Theban  legion  shouted:  "Long 
live  Cassar  Gallus." 

The  murderers  hastened  with  their  work.  They 
brought  a  great  wooden  log.  They  set  Gallus  on 
his  knees.  Barbation,  Bainobeudes,  and  Apode- 
mus  held  him  by  the  arms,  the  feet,  and  the 
shoulders.  Scudilo  pressed  his  head  down  on  the 
wooden  block.  With  a  smile  of  satisfaction  on  his 
pale  lips,  he  pressed  down,  with  both  his  hands, 
that  helpless,  yet  resisting  head;  his  fingers,  cold 
with  exultation,  touched  the  smooth,  recently- 
shaven  skin,  still  damp  from  the  barber's  soap; 
he  looked  with  delight  at  the  plump,  soft  neck, 
which  was  as  white  as  a  girl's. 

The  butcher  was  an  unskilled  executioner. 
Swinging  the  axe,  he  grazed  the  neck,  but  the 
blow  was  uncertain;  then  he  raised  the  axe  a 
second  time,  shouting  to  Scudilo: 

"That  is  not  right!  Straighter!  Hold  his  head 
straighter! 

Gallus  shivered,  and  cried  out  in  his  terror, 
with  a  prolonged,  inhuman  cry,  the  cry  of  a 


Gallus  a  Prisoner.  113 

slaughtered  ox,  which  the  first  blow  had  failed  to 
bring  down. 

The  cries  of  the  soldiers  sounded  nearer  and 
clearer: 

"Long  live  CaBsar  Gallus!" 

The  butcher  raised  his  axe  high  into  the  air 
and  struck.  The  hot  blood  spurted  over  Scudilo's 
hand.  The  head  fell,  and  struck  against  the  stone 
floor. 

At  that  moment  the  legionaries  burst  in. 

Barbation,  Apodemus,  and  the  tribune  of  the 
shield-bearers  ran  toward  the  opposite  door. 

The  executioner  stood  undecided,  but  Scudilo 
had  time  to  whisper  to  him  to  take  away  the  head 
of  the  slain  Caesar:  the  legionaries  would  not  know 
who  the  headless  trunk  belonged  to,  for  otherwise 
they  might  tear  them  all  to  pieces. 

"So  he  was  no  robber?"  stammered  the  aston- 
ished butcher. 

There  was  nothing  to  catch  the  smooth-shaven 
head  by.  The  butcher  first  tucked  it  under  his 
arm.  But  this  felt  awkward.  Then  he  pushed 
his  fingers  into  the  mouth,  and  thus  hooking  it  on 
carried  away  the  head  whose  one  nod  had  only 
recently  made  so  many  other  heads  to  bow. 

Julian,  hearing  of  his  brother's  death,  thought: 
"Now  my  turn  has  come." 


CHAPTER  XII. 
DIANA  THE  HUNTRESS. 

In  Athens,  Julian  was  to  take  the  angelic  rank, 
— the  monastic  tonsure. 

It  was  an  early  morning  in  spring.  The  sun 
had  not  yet  risen.  Julian  had  been  at  the  morn- 
ing service  in  the  church,  and  immediately  after- 
ward had  gone  several  stadia  along  the  bank  of  the 
Ilissus,  overgrown  with  plane  trees  and  wild  vines. 

He  was  fond  of  walking  alone  along  the  bank  of 
the  stream.  Through  the  mist,  he  could  see  the 
ruddy  cliffs  of  the  Acropolis,  and  the  outline  of 
the  Parthenon,  just  touched  by  the  light  of  dawn. 

Julian  took  off  his  sandals,  and  with  bare  feet 
entered  the  shallow  water  of  the  Ilissus.  There 
was  a  scent  of  muscat  grapes  just  about  to  blos- 
som. In  this  scent  there  was  already  a  foretaste 
of  wine;  as  in  the  first  thoughts  of  childhood  there 
is  a  foretaste  of  love. 

Julian  sat  down  at  the  root  of  a  plane  tree,  with- 
out taking  his  feet  from  the  water. 

He  opened  the  Phaedrus,  and  began  to  read.  In 
the  dialogue,  Socrates  says  to  Phaedrus: 

"Let  us  turn  hither.  Let  us  follow  the  course 
of  the  Ilissus.  We  shall  choose  a  lonely  place  to 
sit  down. 

"Phccdrus:  It  is  well  that  I  came  forth  to-day 
without  sandals.  And  thou,  Socrates,  goest  ever 
unshod.  We  can  go  by  the  bed  of  the  stream  itself, 
washing  our  feet.  Look  how  the  water  here  seems 
to  laugh.  It  is  so  pure  and  transparent. 
114 


Diana  the  Huntress.  115 

"Socrates:  I  swear  by  Pallas, — what  a  perfect 
nook!  It  must  be  consecrated  to  the  nymphs,  and 
the  river-god,  Achelous,  to  judge  by  these  little 
statues.  Does  it  not  seem  to  thee  Phaedrus,  that 
the  breeze  here  is  softer  and  more  scented  than 
elsewhere?  Here,  even  in  the  singing  of  the 
cicadas,  there  is  something  languorous,  that  speaks 
of  summer.  But  what  most  pleases  me,  is  the  long, 
rich  grass:  there  may  we  lay  our  heads  to  rest." 

Julian  looked  around  with  a  smile.  All  was  as 
it  had  been  eight  centuries  ago.  The  cicadas 
began  their  carol  in  the  grass. 

"This  soil  has  been  touched  by  the  feet  of  Soc- 
rates! he  thought;  and  burying  his  face  in  the 
soft,  thick  grass,  he  kissed  the  venerable  earth. 

"Hail,  Julian.  You  have  chosen  a  charming 
corner  for  your  reading.  May  I  take  a  seat  beside 
you?" 

"Be  seated.  I  am  very  glad.  Poets  do  not 
break  the  solitude." 

Julian  looked  up  at  a  lean  individual,  in  an 
immoderately  long  cloak, — the  poet  Publius  Opta- 
tianus  Porphyrius,  and  thought  with  an  involun- 
tary smile:  "He  is  so  small,  so  bloodless,  so  lank, 
that  one  might  well  believe  he  will  soon  turn  into 
a  cicada,  as  it  is  recounted  in  Plato's  myth  of  the 
poets." 

Publius,  like  the  cicadas,  could  live  almost  with- 
out food,  but  the  gods  had  not  given  him  the 
power  of  not  feeling  hunger  and  thirst.  His  face, 
earthy  in  color,  long,  unshaven,  and  his  bloodless 
lips,  preserved  the  stamp  of  the  pains  of  hunger. 

"Publius,  why  do  you  wear  such  a  long  cloak?" 
asked  Julian. 

"It  is  not  mine,"  answered  the  poet,  with  philo- 


116  Julian  the  Apostate. 

sophical  equanimity;  "that  is,  it  is  mine  tem- 
porarily. You  see,  I  rent  a  room  with  a  young 
fellow,  Hephestion,  who  is  learning  oratory  in 
Athens.  He  will  be  a  splendid  advocate  some  day. 
Meanwhile,  he  is  poor,  poor  as  I  myself,  poor  as 
a  lyric  poet, — does  not  that  say  everything?  We 
have  pawned  our  clothes,  our  furniture,  every- 
thing, even  the  ink-bottle.  Nothing  is  left  but 
this  cloak  for  us  both.  In  the  morning  I  go  out, 
and  Hephestion  studies  Demosthenes;  in  the 
evening  he  dons  the  garment,  and  I  write  verses 
at  home.  Unfortunately,  Hephestion  is  tall,  while 
I  am  of  diminutive  stature.  But  there  is  no  help 
for  it.  I  go  long-clad,  like  the  ancient  Trojans." 

Publius  Optatianus  burst  out  laughing,  and  his 
earthy  face  recalled  the  face  of  a  funeral  mourner, 
who  had  thought  of  a  jest. 

"You  see,  Julian,"  continued  the  poet,  "I  am 
counting  on  the  death  of  a  rich  Eoman  publican's 
widow.  The  happy  heirs  will  order  an  epitaph 
from  me,  and  pay  me  well  for  it.  Unfortunately, 
the  widow  is  obstinate  and  healthy:  in  spite  of  the 
efforts  of  doctors  and  heirs  she  won't  die.  Other- 
wise I  would  long  ago  have  bought  myself  a  cloak. 
Listen,  Julian,  come  with  me  at  once." 

"Whither?" 

"Trust  to  me!    You  will  be  grateful." 

"What  is  this  secrecy  about?" 

"Don't  be  lazy;  ask  no  questions;  get  up  and 
come.  A  poet  will  not  do  ill  to  a  friend  of  the 
poets.  You  will  see  a  goddess." 

"What  goddess?" 

"Artemis  the  Huntress." 

"A  picture?    A  statue?" 

"Better  than  a  picture  or  a  statue.    If  you  are 


Diana  the  Huntress.  117 

a  lover  of  beauty,  take  up  your  cloak  and  follow 
me." 

And  the  verse-maker  assumed  so  humorously 
mysterious  a  look  that  Julian  felt  curious  and, 
rising,  put  his  cloak  on,  and  followed  him. 

"A  bargain, — say  nothing,  and  express  no 
astonishment.  Otherwise  the  charm  will  vanish. 
In  the  name  of  Calliope  and  Erato,  trust  me!  It 
is  only  a  step  or  two  from  here.  To  keep  you 
from  wearying  on  the  way,  I  will  read  you  the 
beginning  of  my  publicaness'  epitaph." 

They  went  out  on  the  dusty  road.  In  the  first 
rays  of  the  sun,  the  bronze  shield  of  Athene  Pro- 
machos  flashed  lightning  over  the  blushing  Acro- 
polis, the  point  of  her  slender  spear  shone  bright 
against  the  azure,  like  a  candle. 

The  cicadas  along  the  stone  boundary-walls, 
beyond  which  murmured  rivulets  under  fig  groves, 
sang  their  piercing  song,  as  though  rivaling  the 
hoarse  voice  of  the  poet,  who  read  the  epitaph. 

Publius  Optatianus  Porphyrius  was  a  man  not 
devoid  of  talent.  But  his  life  had  fallen  out 
oddly.  A  few  years  ago  he  had  had  a  pretty  little 
house,  "a  regular  temple  of  Hermes,"  in  Constan- 
tinople, not  far  from  the  Chalcedonian  suburb. 
His  father,  a  trader  in  olive-oil,  left  him  a  mod- 
erate competence,  that  would  have  permitted  him 
to  live  fairly  well.  But  his  blood  boiled  within 
him.  This  worshipper  of  ancient  Hellas  was 
vexed  at  what  he  called  "the  triumph  of  Christian 
slavery."  Once  he  wrote  a  poem  in  praise  of  free- 
dom, which  displeased  the  Emperor  Constantius. 

Constantius  would  have  considered  the  poem 
mere  poetic  nonsense.  But  it  contained  an  allu- 
sion to  the  person  of  the  emperor.  And  that  he 


118  Julian  the  Apostate. 

could  not  forgive.  Chastisement  descended  upon 
the  composer.  His  pretty  little  house  and  his 
property  were  confiscated,  and  he  himself  was 
exiled  to  a  wild  isle  of  the  Archipelago.  On  the 
island  there  was  nothing  but  rocks,  goats,  and 
fever.  Optatianus  did  not  withstand  the  trial;  he 
cursed  all  dreams  of  freedom,  and  resolved,  at 
whatever  cost,  to  expiate  his  sin. 

During  the  sleepless  nights  when  the  fever  tor- 
mented him  in  his  island  prison,  he  composed  a 
poem  in  praise  of  the  emperor,  in  centones  from 
Virgil:  separate  verses  of  the  old  poet  were  so  put 
together  as  to  form  a  new  production.  This  head- 
splitting  task  found  favor  at  court.  Optatianus 
had  hit  the  spirit  of  the  age. 

Then  he  went  on  to  still  greater  achievements. 
He  wrote  a  dithyramb  to  Constantius,  in  verses  of 
different  lengths,  so  that  the  verses  made  complete 
figures;  for  example,  a  many-stemmed  shepherd's 
pipe,  a  hydraulic  organ,  a  sacrificial  altar,  in  which 
the  smoke  was  represented  by  several  short,  un- 
even lines  above  the  altar.  The  triumphs  of  his 
ingenuity  were  square  poems  consisting  of  twenty 
or  forty  hexameters.  Certain  letters  were  repeated 
in  red  ink;  when  united,  the  red  letters  repre- 
sented now  the  monogram  of  the  Christ,  now  a 
flower,  now  an  arabesque, — and  then  came  new 
lines  with  new  compliments.  Finally,  the  last  four 
lines  of  the  book  could  be  read  in  eighteen  dif- 
ferent ways,  from  the  end,  from  the  beginning, 
sidewise,  from  above,  from  below,  and  so  on.  And, 
however  read,  they  were  always  in  the  emperor's 
praise. 

The  poet  almost  went  mad  over  this  super- 
human task.  But  then  his  triumph  was  complete. 


Diana  the  Huntress.  119 

Constantius  was  in  ecstasies.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  Optatianus  had  surpassed  the  poets  of  anti- 
quity. The  emperor  wrote  him  a  letter  with  his 
own  hand,  assuring  him  that  he  was  ever  ready 
to  encourage  poetry. 

"In  our  century,"  he  wrote,  rather  pompously, 
"my  notice  follows  every  writer  of  verse,  like  the 
soft  blowing  of  a  zephyr."  Nevertheless,  they  did 
not  restore  his  confiscated  property.  He  only 
received  a  small  sum  of  money,  and  permission  to 
leave  the  accursed  island  for  Athens. 

Here  he  led  a  mournful  life.  The  assistant  of 
the  junior  stable-hoy  in  the  circus  led  a  life  of 
luxury  in  comparison  with  him.  The  poet  had  to 
wait  whole  days  in  the  ante-chamber  of  vain,  half- 
literate  dignitaries,  in  the  company  of  coffin- 
makers,  Jewish  merchants  and  managers  of  wed- 
ding processions,  to  get  orders  for  epithalamia, 
epitaphs,  or  a  verse  love  letter.  They  paid  him 
miserably.  But  Porphyrius  did  not  despond,  ho- 
ping some  day  to  treat  the  emperor  to  a  trick  poem 
of  such  unheard  of  skill  that  it  would  procure  him 
his  final  pardon. 

Julian  felt  that,  in  spite  of  Porphyry's  degrada- 
tion, the  love  of  Hellas  was  not  extinct  in  him. 
He  was  a  discerning  judge  of  Greek  poetry. 
Julian  willingly  conversed  with  him. 

They  turned  aside  from  the  main  road,  and 
approached  the  high  stone  wall  of  the  palaestra. 

All  around  the  place  looked  deserted.  Two 
black  lambs  were  cropping  the  grass.  At  tho 
closed  doors,  where  poppies  and  dandelions  grew 
in  the  crevices  of  the  flags,  stood  a  chariot,  yoked 
with  two  white  horses.  Their  manes  were  clipped, 
like  the  horses  in  the  bas-reliefs. 


120  Julian  the  Apostate. 

A  slave  was  watching  them,  an  old  man,  with 
a  shaky  bald  head,  that  looked  like  an  egg,  with 
white  down  over  it. 

The  old  man  turned  out  to  be  deaf  and  dumb, 
but  benevolent.  He  recognized  Optatianus,  and 
nodded  to  him  kindly,  pointing  to  the  closed  doors 
of  the  palaestra. 

"Lend  me  your  purse  for  a  moment;  I  will  take 
a  denarius  or  two  for  the  old  man  to  buy  wine/' 
said  Optatlanus  to  his  companion. 

He  tossed  him  a  coin,  and  the  mute  opened  the 
door  for  them,  with  servile  grimaces  and  mutter- 
ings. 

They  entered  a  long  peristyle. 

Between  the  columns  were  seen  the  so-called 
xisti,  the  galleries  set  apart  for  the  exercises  of  the 
athletes.  There  was  no  sand  in  the  xisti;  they 
were  overgrown  with  grass.  The  friends  entered 
a  wide,  inner  portico. 

Julian's  curiosity  was  awakened  by  all  this 
mystery.  Optatianus  led  him  by  the  hand,  with- 
out uttering  a  word. 

On  the  second  portico  opened  the  doors  of  the 
exhedra,  closed  marble  halls  that  had  once  served 
as  the  auditoriums  of  Athenian  sages  and  orators. 
Field  cicadas  shrilled  where  the  speeches  of 
famous  men  had  once  been  heard.  Bees  mur- 
mured over  grasses  that  might  have  grown  on 
tombs,  so  rich  were  they.  Silence  and  sadness 
reigned  there.  Suddenly  a  woman's  voice  was 
heard  somewhere,  then  the  sound  of  a  bronze  disk 
on  the  marble,  then  laughter. 

Stealing  along  like  thieves,  they  hid  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  columns,  in  the  eleothesion,  where  the 


Diana  the  Huntress.  121 

athletes  of  old  used  to  anoint  themselves  with  oil 
during  the  gymnastic  contests. 

From  between  the  columns  they  could  see  a 
long,  four-cornered  ephebeon,  under  the  open  sky, 
destined  for  games  of  ball,  and  for  casting  the 
disk.  It  had  evidently  been  recently  strewed  with 
fine  sand. 

Julian  looked,  and  involuntarily  stepped  back- 
ward. 

Twenty  paces  from  him  stood  a  young  girl,  per- 
fectly naked.  He  saw  her  beautiful  and  perfect 
body,  from  head  to  foot.  She  was  holding  a  bronze 
disk  in  her  hand. 

Julian  made  a  quick  movement  to  go  away,  but 
in  the  innocent  eyes  of  Optatianus,  in  his  pale, 
lean  face,  there  was  so  much  reverence  that  Julian 
understood  why  the  worshipper  of  Hellas  had 
brought  him  thither,  and  felt  that  not  a  single 
sinful  thought  found  room  in  the  poet's  soul.  His 
ecstasy  was  holy.  Optatianus  whispered  in  his 
companion's  ear,  seizing  him  by  the  hand : 

"Look,  Julian;  we  are  now  in  ancient  Laconia, 
nine  centuries  back.  You  remember  the  verses  of 
Propertius:  Ludi  Laconnm. 

"Oh,  Sparta,  we  wonder  at  many  laws  of  thy 
gymnastic  games,  but  most  of  all  at  the  palaestra 
of  the  maidens:  for  thy  nude  virgins,  among  con- 
tending heroes,  take  part  in  not  inglorious  games." 

"Who  is  she?"  asked  Julian. 

"I  know  not,  nor  wish  to  know." 

"Very  well.    Hush." 

Now  he  looked  directly  and  hungrily  at  the 
disk-thrower,  no  longer  ashamed,  and  feeling  that 
it  would  not  be  right  or  wise  to  be  ashamed. 

She  stepped  backward  several  paces,  bent  down, 


122  Julian  the  Apostate. 

and  setting  her  left  foot  forward,  raised  herself 
with  a  powerful  motion  of  her  whole  body,  and 
threw  the  bronze  disk  so  high  that  it  glittered  in 
the  rising  sun,  and  falling,  struck  with  a  ringing 
sound  against  the  pedestal  of  a  distant  column. 
It  seemed  to  Julian  that  an  antique  statue  of 
Phidias  was  before  him. 

"That  was  the  best  stroke,"  said  a  little  girl  of 
twelve,  dressed  in  a  brilliant  tunic,  who  stood 
near  the  column. 

"Myra,  give  me  the  disk,"  said  the  disk-thrower. 
"I  can  throw  it  still  higher, — you  shall  see. 
Meroe,  go  aside,  or  I  shall  hurt  you,  as  Apollo 
wounded  Hyacinthus." 

Meroe,  an  old  slave-woman,  an  Egyptian,  to 
judge  by  her  motley  garments  and  dusky  face,  was 
preparing  perfumes  for  the  bath,  in  an  alabaster 
amphora.  Julian  understood  that  the  dumb  slave 
and  the  chariot  with  the  white  horses  belonged  to 
these  two  lovers  of  Spartan  games. 

When  she  had  finished  throwing  the  disk,  the 
girl  took  a  bent  bow  from  the  pale,  dark-eyed 
Myra,  and  drew  a  long  feathered  arrow  from  a 
quiver.  The  girl  aimed  at  a  black  circle,  serving 
as  a  target,  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  ephebeon. 
The  bow-string  twanged.  The  arrow  whistled 
through  the  air  and  struck  the  mark;  then  a 
second,  and  a  third. 

"Artemis  the  Huntress!"  murmured  Opta- 
tianus. 

Suddenly  a  soft,  rosy  ray  of  the  rising  sun,  slip- 
ping between  the  columns,  fell  on  the  girl's  face 
and  almost  childish  breast. 

Throwing  down  her  arrows  and  bow,  she  cov- 
ered her  face  with  her  hands,  blinded  with  the  light. 


Diana  the  Huntress.  123 

The  twittering  swallows  flashed  above  the  pales- 
tra and  vanished  in  the  blue  sky. 

She  uncovered  her  face,  throwing  her  arms 
above  her  head.  Her  hair  at  the  ends  was  pale 
gold,  like  sunlit  yellow  honey,  with  a  darker, 
ruddy  shade  at  the  roots.  Her  lips  were  half- 
opened  with  a  smile  of  childish  joy.  The  sunlight 
spread  lower  and  lower  over  her  naked  body.  She 
stood  there  pure,  and  wrapped  in  light  and  beauty, 
the  most  perfect  of  all  garments. 

"Myra,"  the  girl  said  thoughtfully  and  slowly, 
"look  what  a  sky!  I  would  willingly  throw  myself 
into  it,  and  be  drowned  in  it,  with  a  cry  like  the 
swallows.  You  remember,  we  said  that  we  cannot 
be  happy  without  wings.  When  you  watch  the 
birds,  you  envy  them.  You  must  be  light,  alto- 
gether naked,  Myra,  as  I  am  now,  and  gaze  deep, 
deep  into  the  sky,  and  feel  that  it  lasts  forever, 
that  there  is  not,  and  cannot  be,  anything  but  the 
sun  and  sky,  around  your  light,  free,  naked  body." 

Straightening  herself,  and  raising  her  hand 
towards  the  sky,  she  sighed  deeply  and  sadly,  as 
people  sigh  for  something  that  is  lost  forever. 

The  sunlight  fell  lower  and  lower.  It  had 
already  reached  her  hips,  with  a  red  caress.  Then 
the  girl  shuddered,  as  though  she  had  grown 
ashamed,  as  though  something  living  and  passion- 
ate had  seen  her.  She  covered  her  breast  with  one 
hand,  her  loins  with  the  other,  in  the  everlasting 
movement  of  shame  of  the  Cnidian  Aphrodite. 

"Meroe,  quick,  my  garment!"  she  exclaimed, 
looking  round  with  large,  frightened  eyes. 

Julian  did  not  remember  how  he  left  the  palaes- 
tra. His  heart  glowed.  The  poet's  face  was  ex- 
alted and  sad,  like  the  face  of  one  leaving  a  temple. 


124  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"You  are  not  angry?"  he  asked  Julian. 

"Oh  no,  why?" 

"Perhaps  for  a  Christian,  it  is  a  crime?" 

"There  was  no  crime.    Do  you  not  understand?" 

"Yes,  yes — I  thought  so." 

They  went  forth  again  to  the  dusty  and  now  hot 
road,  and  took  the  direction  of  Athens. 

Optatianus  continued  to  speak,  softly,  as  if  to 
himself: 

"How  shamefaced  we  have  become,  and  how 
ugly.  We  fear  the  harsh  and  pitiful  nakedness  of 
our  bodies,  and  hide,  because  we  feel  that  we  are 
uncouth  and  unclean.  But  formerly!  For  all 
that  was  once,  Julian!  the  Spartan  virgins  came 
forth  to  the  palaestra  naked  and  proud  before  all 
the  people.  And  no  one  feared  temptation.  The 
pure  looked  on  the  pure.  They  were  like  children, 
like  gods.  And  to  know  that  this  can  never  be 
again,  that  that  freedom  and  purity  can  never 
return  to  the  earth,  all  that  life  and  joy !  never !" 

Optatianus'  head  sank  on  his  breast,  and  he 
sighed  deeply.  They  entered  the  street  of  the  tri- 
pods. Not  far  from  the  acropolis,  the  friends  part- 
ed in  silence. 

Julian  entered  the  shade  of  the  Propylasum. 
He  passed  the  Stoa  Poikile,  with  the  pictures  of 
Parrhasius,  representing  the  battles  of  Marathon 
and  Salamis;  then,  past  the  little  temple  of  Wing- 
less Victory,  he  drew  near  to  the  Parthenon. 

He  had  only  to  shut  his  eyes  to  see  the  naked, 
beautiful  body  of  Artemis  the  Huntress.  When  he 
opened  them,  the  marble  Parthenon  in  the  sun- 
light seemed  living  and  golden,  like  the  body  of 
the  goddess. 

And  openly  before  all  men,  fearing  no  death,  he 


Diana  the  Huntress.  125 

desired  to  embrace  the  sun-warmed  marble  with 
his  arms  and  to  kiss  it,  as  a  holy  thing. 

Not  far  from  him  stood  two  youths  in  dark  gar- 
ments, with  pale,  stern  faces,  Gregory  of  Nazian- 
zen,  and  Basil  of  Cesarea.  The  Hellenes  feared 
them,  as  their  most  powerful  foes.  The  Christians 
hoped  that  the  two  friends  would  become  mighty 
teachers  of  the  Church.  They  looked  at  Julian. 

''What  is  the  matter  with  him  to-day?"  said 
Gregory.  "Is  that  a — monk?  What  movements ! 
How  he  closes  his  eyes !  What  a  smile ! — Can  you 
really  believe  in  his  piety,  Basil?" 

'•I  have  seen  him  praying  in  the  church.  He 
was  weeping." 

"Hypocrisy ! " 

"Why  does  he  come  to  us,  and  seek  our  friend- 
ship? Why  does  he  discuss  the  Scriptures?" 

"He  mocks  us,  or  else  he  wishes  to  deceive  us. 
Do  not  trust  him.  He  is  a  tempter.  Remember, 
my  brother,  in  that  youth  the  Roman  Empire  is 
nourishing  a  mighty  evil.  He  is  an  enemy." 

The  friends  passed,  with  downcast  eyes.  Neither 
the  severe  Caryatid-maidens  of  the  Erectheum,  nor 
the  white  temple  of  Nike  Apteros,  smiling  in  the 
azure,  nor  the  Propylae,  nor  the  Parthenon,  the 
most  perfect  beauty  in  the  world,  allured  them. 
They  wished  one  thing  only,  to  destroy  it  all  as 
a  snare  of  Satan. 

The  sun  cast  the  shadows  of  the  two  monks, 
Gregory  of  Nazianzen,  and  Basil  of  Cesarea,  two 
long  black  shadows,  against  the  marble  of  the 
Parthenon. 

"I  want  to  see  her,"  thought  Julian,  "I  must 
know  who  she  is!" 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
NIGHTS  AND  SUPPERS  OF  THE  GODS. 

"The  gods  sent  mortals  into  the  world,  that 
they  might  speak  beautifully." 

"Wonderful!  wonderfully  said,  Mamertinus! 
Eepeat  it,  before  you  forget  it :  I  will  write  it  down, 
along  with  your  other  sayings."  Thus  was  ad- 
dressed Mamertinus,  a  fashionable  lawyer  of  Ath- 
ens by  his  friend  and  adoring  worshipper  Lamp- 
ridius,  teacher  of  Khetoric.  He  drew  from  his 
pocket  a  folding  wax  tablet  and  a  sharp  steel 
stylus  and  got  ready  to  write. 

"I  say,"  said  Mamertinus,  looking  at  his  com- 
panion with  a  coquettish  smile,  as  they  sat  at  sup- 
per, "I  say,  that  people  were  sent  by  the  gods — ' 

"No,  no,  you  did  not  say  it  like  that,  Mamerti- 
nus;" Lampridius  interrupted  him;  "you  said 
it  much  better:  the  gods  sent  mortals." 

"Oh  yes.  I  said :  the  gods  sent  mortals  into  the 
world,  only  that  they  might  speak  beautifully." 

"You  have  added  the  word  'only/  now.  It  is 
still  better  like  that.  'Only  that  they  might—'-' 

And  Lampridius  adoringly  wrote  down  the  ad- 
vocate's words,  as  though  they  were  an  oracle. 

It  was  a  literary  supper  of  friends,  given  not  far 
from  Pira3us,  by  the  old  and  worthy  Koman  sena- 
tor Hortensius  at  the  villa  of  his  young  and  rich 
ward,  Arsinoe. 

That  same  day  Mamertinus  had  pronounced  his 
famous  oration  in  defence  of  the  banker,  Barnabas. 
126 


Nights  and  Suppers  of  the  Gods.        127 

No  one  doubted  that  the  Jew  Barnabas  was  a  ras- 
cal. But,  to  say  nothing  of  the  invincible  elo- 
quence of  the  orator,  he  had  such  a  voice  that  one 
of  the  innumerable  throng  of  his  fair  worshippers 
said:  "I  never  listened  to  Mamertinus'  words,  and 
I  never  need  know  what  he  is  talking  about.  I  am 
intoxicated  by  the  mere  sound  of  his  voice.  Es- 
pecially when  it  dies  away  at  the  end  of  a  phrase — 
it  is  something  marvelous !  It  is  not  the  voice  of  a 
man,  but  divine  nectar,  the  strains  of  an  seolian 
harp!"  Though  simple  coarse  people  call  Barna- 
bas, the  usurer,  "a  drinker  of  blood,  eating  up 
the  portions  of  the  widows  and  the  fatherless,"  the 
Athenians  were  of  course  enthusiastic  in  exoner- 
ating the  client  of  Mamertinus.  The  lawyer  re- 
ceived fifty  thousand  sesterces  from  the  Jew,  and 
was  now  in  excellent  spirits,  at  the  distinguished 
little  festival  which  Hortensius  was  giving  in  his 
honor.  But  he  had  a  habit  of  pretending  to  be  ill, 
and  making  perpetual  demands  for  indulgence. 

"Oh,  my  friends,  I  am  so  tired  to-day,"  he  said, 
in  a  plaintive  voice,  "I  am  quite  ill.  Where  is 
Arsinoe?" 

"She  will  come  in  a  moment.  Arsinoe  has  just 
received  a  new  scientific  apparatus  from  the  Alex- 
andrian Museum:  she  is  quite  taken  with  it.  But 
I  will  have  her  called,"  concluded  Hortensius. 

"No,  pray  do  not ! "  said  the  lawyer,  carelessly. 
"Pray  do  not.  But  what  nonsense.  A  girl,  and — 
physics!  What  can  there  be  in  common  between 
them?  Aristophanes  and  Euripides  laughed  at 
learned  women — and  they  were  right!  your  Arsinoe 
is  capricious,  Hortensius!  If  she  was  not  so 
charming,  really  with  her  sculpture  and  mathe- 
matics, she  would  be — " 


128  Julian  the  Apostate. 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  and  looked 
towards  the  open  window. 

"What  am  I  to  do?  answered  Hortensius,  "a 
spoiled  child — an  orphan,  neither  father  nor 
mother — I  am  only  her  guardian,  and  do  not  wish 
to  limit  her  in  anything." 

"Yes — yes — " 

The  lawyer  was  no  longer  listening.  He  was 
thinking  of  himself. 

"My  friends,  I  feel—" 

"What  is  it?"  asked  several  voices,  with  concern. 

"I  feel — it  seems  to  me  there  is  a  draught." 

"Shall  we  have  the  shutters  closed?"  asked 
the  host. 

"No,  it  is  not  necessary.  It  would  be  too  close. 
But  I  tired  my  voice  so,  to-day.  And  the  day  after 
to-morrow,  I  have  another  case.  Give  me  my  chest 
protector,  and  a  carpet  for  my  feet.  I  am  afraid 
of  getting  hoarse,  from  the  damp  night  air." 

Young  Hephestion,  the  same  who  lived  with  the 
poet  Optatianus  and  was  a  pupil  of  Lampridius, 
and  Lampridius  himself  both  sprang  up  in  haste 
to  get  Mamertinus  his  wrap. 

The  chest  protector  was  a  handsomely  embroid- 
ered scarf  of  feathery,  white  wool,  which  the 
lawyer  never  parted  from,  so  that  at  the  slightest 
danger  of  a  chill,  he  might  encircle  his  precious 
throat  with  it. 

Mamertinus  took  all  the  care  of  himself  a  lover 
takes  of  a  spoiled  mistress.  All  were  accustomed 
to  this.  He  loved  himself  with  such  a  naive  grace, 
with  such  touching  tenderness,  that  he  compelled 
other  people  also  to  love  him. 

"The  matron  Fabiola  embroidered  that  wrap  for 
me,"  he  informed  them,  with  a  smile. 


Nights  and  Suppers  of  the  Gods.       129 

"The  Roman  senator's  wife?"  asked  Horten- 
sius. 

"Yes.  I  will  tell  you  a  story  about  her.  Once 
I  wrote  a  little  note, — elegant  enough,  it  is  true, — 
but  of  course,  a  trifle,  five  lines  in  Greek, — to 
another  lady,  also  an  admirer  of  mine,  who  sent 
me  a  basket  of  magnificent  cherries.  I  wrote  Ji 
jesting  reply,  imitating  Pliny's  style.  But  imag- 
ine, my  friends!  Fabiola  was  in  such  a  hurry  to 
read  my  letter,  and  copy  it  into  her  collection,  that 
she  posted  two  of  her  slaves  on  the  road,  to  waylay 
my  messenger.  And  so  they  fell  on  him  by  night, 
in  a  lonely  ravine:  he  thought  they  were  robbers, 
but  they  did  him  no  harm,  but  gave  him  money 
and  took  the  letter  away,  and  so  Fabiola  was  the 
first  to  read  it,  and  even  learned  it  by  heart!" 

"Why  certainly,  I  know,  I  know — she  is  a  re- 
markable woman,"  said  Lampridius,  catching  at 
the  conversation,  "I  saw  myself  that  she  keeps 
your  letters  in  a  carved  cabinet  of  lemon  wood, 
like  treasures.  She  learns  them  by  heart,  and 
assured  me  that  they  are  better  than  any  verse. 
Fabiola  reasons  justly,  in  my  opinion :  'if  Alexan- 
der the  great  kept  Homer's  poems  in  a  cedar-wood 
box,  why  should  not  I  keep  Mamertinus'  letters  in 
a  valuable  cabinet  ?'" 

"My  friends,  this  goose-liver  with  saffron  sauce 
is  a  miracle  of  perfection ! — I  advise  you  to  try  it. 
Who  prepared  it,  Hortensius?" 

"The  senior  cook,  Dedalus." 

"Honor  to  him.  Your  cook,  Dedalus,  is  a  true 
poet." 

"You  are  fascinated  by  the  goose-liver,  worthy 
Gargilianus.  Rut  can  a  cook  be  called  a  poet?'* 
asked  the  teacher  of  rhetoric,  with  a  pedantic 


130  Julian  the  Apostate. 

smile,   "do   you   not   thereby   insult   the   divine 
Muses,  our  protectrices?" 

"The  Muses  should  be  flattered,  Lampridius. 
I  affirm,  and  shall  always  affirm,  that  gastronomy 
is  as  high  an  art  as  any  of  the  others.  It  is  time 
to  bid  farewell  to  prejudice." 

Gargilianus,  a  Eoman  official  from  the  prefect's 
office,  was  a  plump,  well-fed  person,  with  a  triple 
chin.  He  was  carefully  shaved  and  perfumed. 
His  grey  hair  was  close-cut  and  through  it  gleamed 
red  folds  of  fat.  He  had  a  wise  and  well-born 
face.  For  many  years,  he  had  been  considered  an 
indispensable  guest  at  every  elegant  literary  assem- 
bly in  Athens.  Gargilianus  loved  only  two  things 
in  life:  good  food,  and  good  style.  Gastronomy 
and  literature  were  blended  for  him  in  a  single 
pleasure. 

"Let  us  say  that  I  take  an  oyster,"  he  declaimed, 
raising  a  shell-fish  to  his  mouth,  in  his  fat,  well- 
formed  fingers,  covered  with  huge  amethysts  and 
rubies. 

"I  take  an  oyster,  and  swallow  it — :" 

He  swallowed  it,  half-closing  his  eyes,  and 
smacked  his  upper  lip  gently.  His  lip  had  a  pecu- 
liar gluttonous  and  even  ravenous  expression. 
Protruding,  sharp,  curved,  it  looked  something 
like  a  little  proboscis.  In  appraising  the  melodi- 
ous verse  of  Anacreon  or  Moschus,  he  smacked 
this  gluttonous  lip  as  sensuously  as  when  at  supper 
he  regaled  himself  on  a  sauce  of  nightingales' 
tongues. 

"I  swallow  it,  and  at  once  I  feel"  continued 
Gargilianus  seriously,  "I  feel  that  the  oyster  is 
from  the  shores  of  Britain,  and  not  at  all,  my 
friends,  from  Ostium  or  Tarentum.  If  you  wish, 


Nights  and  Suppers  of  the  Gods.        131 

I  will  close  my  eyes,  and  tell  at  once  from  what  sea 
an  oyster  or  fish  comes." 

"But  what  has  that  to  do  with  poetry?"  Mam- 
ertinus  interrupted  him,  somewhat  impatiently. 
He  never  liked  to  have  anyone  else  listened  to, 
when  he  was  present. 

"Imagine,  my  friends,"  continued  the  gastron- 
omist, undisturbed,  "that  it  is  long  since  I  have 
been  on  the  shore  of  the  ocean,  and  that  I  love  it, 
and  long  for  it.  I  can  assure  you  that  a  good 
oyster  has  the  fresh,  salt  smell  of  the  sea,  so  that 
to  swallow  it  is  enough  to  imagine  one's  self  on 
the  shores  of  the  ocean.  I  shut  my  eyes,  and  see 
waves,  I  see  cliffs,  and  hear  the  murmuring  of  the 
'misty  sea,'  as  Homer  calls  it.  No,  tell  me,  on  youi 
conscience,  what  verse  of  the  Odyssey  awakens  the 
poetry  of  the  sea  so  vividly  as  the  savor  of  a  fresh 
oyster? — Or,  suppose  I  cut  a  peach,  and  taste  its 
perfumed  juice.  Tell  me,  why  is  the  scent  of  vio- 
lets and  roses  more  poetical  than  the  taste  of  a 
peach  ?  The  poets  describe  forms,  colors,  sounds. 
Why  should  not  a  taste  be  as  beautiful  as  a  color, 
a  sound,  or  a  form  ?  Prejudice,  my  friends,  preju- 
dice! Taste  is  the  greatest,  and  still  uncompre- 
hended  gift  of  the  gods.  The  combination  of 
tastes  forms  a  high  and  delicate  harmony,  like  the 
combination  of  sounds.  I  repeat  that  there  is  a 
tenth  Muse, — the  Muse  of  Gastronomy." 

"Well,  peaches,  oysters,  may  be — "  replied  the 
teacher  of  oratory, — "But  what  harmony  can  there 
be  in  a  goose-liver  with  saffron  sauce?" 

"Is  there  not  beauty  for  you,  Lampridius,  not 
only  in  the  'Idyls'  of  Theocritus,  but  also  in  the 
coarsest  comic  verses  of  Plautus?  in  the  market- 
place jests  of  his  slaves?" 


132  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"Well,  I  suppose  there  is." 

"You  see,  my  friend,  and  for  me  there  is  a 
special  gastronomic  poetry  in  goose-liver.  I  am 
really  as  ready  to  crown  Dedalus  with  a  wreath  of 
bays  for  it,  as  Pindar  for  his  Olympic  Ode." 

Two  new  guests  appeared  in  the  doorway.  They 
were  Julian,  and  Publius,  the  poet.  Hortensius 
yielded  the  place  of  honor  to  Julian.  Publius' 
"hungry  eyes  lit  up,  at  the  sight  of  the  numerous 
dainty  dishes.  The  poet  was  in  a  new  cloak,  which 
had  come  to  him  just  in  time.  Probably  the  pub- 
lican's wife  had  died,  and  he  had  received  his  hon- 
orarium for  her  epitaph. 

The  conversation  continued. 

The  teacher  of  rhetoric,  Lampridius  was  relat- 
ing that  once,  from  curiosity,  he  had  gone  to  hear 
a  Christian  preacher  in  Rome,  inveighing  against 
"the  heathen  scholars."  "The  scholars,"  affirmed 
the  preacher,  "honor  men  not  for  their  good 
^eeds,  but  for  their  good  style.  They  think  it  is 
less  criminal  to  kill  a  man,  than  to  pronounce  the 
word  'homo,'  with  a  wrong  accent."  Lampridius 
Avas  vexed  at  these  jests.  He  asserted  that  the 
Christians  were  so  hostile  to  the  good  style  of  the 
rhetoricians  because  they  knew  that  their  own 
style  was  barbarous.  They  destroyed  the  antique 
eloquence,  and  confused  illiteracy  with  good  mor- 
ris. Everyone  who  could  speak  correctly  was  sus- 
pect for  them.  According  to  the  opinion  of 
Lampridius,  the  day  that  eloquence  perished, 
Hellas  and  Eome  would  also  perish  and  men  would 
return  to  inarticulate  beasts.  And  the  Christian 
preachers  with  their  barbarous  style  did  every- 
thing in  their  power  to  bring  about  that  misfor- 
tune. 


Nights  and  Suppers  of  the  Gods.        133 

"Who  knows,"  remarked  Mamertinus,  thought- 
fully, "perhaps  good  style  is  more  important  than 
good  deeds.  Slaves,  and  barbarians,  and  ignorant 
people  are  also  good!" 

Hephestion  explained  to  his  companion,  Junius 
Mauricius,  the  precise  meaning  of  Cicero's  words : 
"causam  mcndacinncnlis  adspcrgcre." 

"'Mcndaciuncidis'  means  'little  lies/  Cicero 
allows,  and  even  advises,  so  to  speak,  that  a  speech 
should  he  sown  or  sprinkled  with  inventions, 
'mendariuncttlis.'  He  admits  a  lie,  if  it  adorns  the 
orator's  style." 

Then  began  a  general  heated  discussion  as  to 
whether  an  orator  should  begin  a  speech  with  an 
anapaest  or  a  dactyl. 
Julian  grew  weary. 

All  turned  to  him,  asking  his  opinion  about  the 
dactyl  and  the  anapaest. 

He  candidly  admitted  that  he  had  never  thought 
of  it,  and  that  he  held  that  an  orator  had  better 
concern  himself  with  the  wise  contents  of  his 
speech  than  with  such  insignificant  details  of  ex- 
ternal style.  •, 

Mamertinus,  Lampridius,  and  Hephestion  were 
dissatisfied.  In  their  opinion,  the  subject  of  an 
oration  was  indifferent.  It  should  be  all  the  same 
to  an  orator  whether  he  spoke  for  or  against.  Not 
only  had  its  purport  small  importance,  but  even 
the  connection  of  the  words  was  a  matter  of  sec- 
ondary importance,  while  the  sounds,  the  melody 
of  the  words,  and  new  combinations  of  letters  were 
the  main  matter.  A  barbarian,  who  did  not  know 
a  word  of  Greek,  ought  to  be  able  to  feel  the  ora- 
tor's charm. 

"I  shall  quote  two  verses  from  Propertius,"  said 


134  Julian  the  Apostate. 

Gargilianus,  "and  you  will  see  what  sound  in  poet- 
ry means,  and  how  subordinate  sense  is.    Listen: 

"Et  Veneris  dominae  wlvtres,  mea  turbae,  columbae 
Tmguunt  Gorgoneo  punica  rostra  lacu." 

"And  lady  Venus'  birds,  my  fluttering  doves, 
Tinge  their  pink  beaks  in  the  Gorgonean  lake." 

"What  a  charm!  Every  letter  sings!  What 
have  I  to  do  with  the  meaning  ?  The  whole  heauty 
is  in  the  sounds,  in  the  choice  of  vowels  and  conso- 
nants !  For  these  sounds,  I  would  give  all  Juve- 
nal's civic  virtue,  and  Lucretius'  philosophy.  No ! 
just  hear!  what  sweetness  there  is  in  their  mur- 
murous sounds: 

"Et  Veneris  dominae,  mea  turbae,  columbae" 

And  he  smacked  his  upper  lip,  with  sensuous 
delight. 

All  repeated  the  two  verses  of  Propertius,  drink- 
ing in  their  charm.  They  kindled  each  other  to 
a  literary  orgy. 

"Only  listen,"  murmured  Mamertinus,  in  his 
soft,  die  away  voice,  like  an  -ZEolian  harp:  "  'tin- 
guunt  Gorgoneo'" — 

"'Tinguunt  Gorgoneo,'"  repeated  the  prefect's 
official,  "I  swear  by  Pallas,  it  is  pleasant  even  to 
the  palate;  as  if  you  were  swallowing  a  thick, 
warm  draught  of  wine,  mixed  with  Attic  honey: 

'Tinguunt  Gorgoneo' — 

"Note  how  often  the  letter  cg'  is  repeated, — it  is 
like  the  cooing  of  turtle-doves.  And  further  on: 

'Punica  rostra  lacu.' " 

"Wonderful!  inimitable!" — murmured  Lampri- 
dius,  closing  his  eyes  in  rapture. 


Xiirhts  and  Suppers  of  the  Gods.        135 

Julian  felt  both  ashamed  and  amused,  in  watch- 
ing this  sensual  intoxication  on  sounds. 

"The  words  must  be  somewhat  devoid  of  mean- 
ing," concluded  Lampridius,  loftily;  "they  must 
flow  and  murmur  and  sing,  not  arresting  either 
hearing  or  feeling,  then  only  is  the  full,  enjoyment 
of  beauty  possible." 

In  the  doorway,  at  which  Julian  had  been  look- 
ing all  the  time,  as  if  expecting  someone,  unheard 
and  unnoticed  by  anyone,  appeared  an  upright 
form,  white  as  a  ghost. 

The  shutters  were  wide  open.  The  clear  moon- 
light fell  into  the  room  and  mingled  with  the  red 
glow  of  the  lamps  on  the  mosaic  floor,  bright  as  a 
mirror,  and  on  the  walls  with  their  frescoes,  repre- 
senting sleeping  Endymion  under  the  caresses  of 
the  moon. 

The  white  apparition  was  motionless.  An  an- 
cient Athenian  peplum,  of  soft,  silvery  wool,  fell 
in  long  straight  folds,  caught  up  under  her  breast 
by  a  slender  belt.  The  moonlight  lit  up  tho 
peplum.  The  face  remained  in  the  shadow.  The 
newcomer  looked  at  Julian,  and  Julian  looked  at 
her.  They  smiled  at  each  other,  knowing  that  that 
smile  was  noticed  by  no  one.  She  laid  her  finger 
on  her  lips,  and  listened  to  what  was  being  said 
at  the  table. 

Suddenly  Mamertinus,  who  was  engaged  in  a 
lively  discussion  with  Lampridius  as  to  the  gram- 
matical differences  between  the  first  and  second 
aorist,  exclaimed: 

"Arsinoe!  At  last!  You  have  decided  to  leave 
your  physical  apparatus  and  statues  for  our  sakes."' 

She  entered,  and  greeted  all  with  a  simple  smile. 
It  was  the  disk-thrower,  whom  Julian  had  seen  in 


136  Julian  the  Apostate. 

the  deserted  palaestra  a  month  ago.  The  poet  Pub- 
lius  Optatianus,  who  knew  everything  and  every- 
body in  Athens,  had  become  acquainted  with  Hor- 
tensius  and  Arsinoe,  and  had  brought  Julian  to 
their  house. 

Arsinoe's  father,  the  old  Eoman  senator,  Helvi- 
dius  Priscus,  had  died  in  the  last  year  of  Constan- 
tino the  Great's  reign.  His  two  daughters  by  a 
German  captive,  Arsinoe  and  Myra,  Helvidius  had 
entrusted,  at  his  death,  to  the  guardianship  of  his 
old  friend  the  Senator  Quintus  Hortensius,  whom 
he  respected  for  his  love  of  ancient  Eome,  and  his 
hatred  of  Christianity.  A  distant  relation  of 
Arsinoe's,  the  owner  of  a  great  factory  of  purple 
in  Sidon,  had  left  her  incalculable  wealth. 

A  crowd  of  admirers  surrounded  her.  From  her 
garments,  head-dress,  her  irreproachable  simplic- 
ity of  behavior,  she  might  have  been  taken  for  a 
pure  Greek  of  the  ancient  type,  few  of  whom  were 
left.  But  the  new  German  blood  was  visible  in 
the  irregular  lines  of  her  face. 

Christian  virtues  and  the  patriarchal  family 
morals  of  ancient  Rome  seemed  to  her  equally 
hateful.  The  images  of  such  free  women  as 
Aspasia,  Cleopatra,  and  Sappho  had  captivated 
her  from  childhood.  Once,  to  Hortensius'  no 
small  horror,  she  had  affirmed  in  all  simplicity 
that  she  would  sooner  consent  to  become  a  hetera, 
beautiful  and  free,  than  a  mother  of  a  family;  the 
slave  of  a  husband,  "like  all  the  rest."  These 
words  "like  all  the  rest,"  overwhelmed  her  with 
weariness  and  aversion. 

At  one  time,  Arsinoe  had  a  passion  for  the 
natural  sciences,  and  worked  in  the  Alexandrian 
museum,  under  renowned  teachers.  The  atomic 


Nights  and  Suppers  of  the  Gods.        137 

theories  of  Epicuris,  Democritus,  and  Lucretius 
captivated  her,  she  liked  the  teaching  which  freed 
her  "from  fear  of  the  gods."  She  afterward  de- 
voted herself  to  sculpture,  with  the  same  impa- 
tient, almost  morbid  passion. 

She  had  come  to  Athens  to  study  the  best 
models  of  Phidias,  Scopas,  and  Praxiteles. 

"Oh,  you  are  at  grammar  again,"  she  said,  with 
a  mocking  smile,  entering  the  banquet  hall.  "Do 
not  be  shy, — go  on!  I  will  not  dispute;  I  am 
hungry.  I  have  been  working  all  day.  Boy,  pour 
me  some  wine!" 

"My  friends,"  continued  Arsinoe,  "you  are  un- 
happy people,  with  all  your  quotations  from 
Demosthenes,  and  rales  of  Quintilian.  Take  care! 
Rhetoric  will  destroy  you.  I  would  fain  see  a 
man,  at  last,  who  has  nothing  to  do  with  Homer 
or  Cicero;  who  speaks  without  thinking  of  accents, 
syntax,  and  combinations  of  letters.  Julian,  come 
to  the  sea  after  supper;  to-day  I  do  not  wish  to 
hear  quarrels  about  dactyls  and  anapassts." 

"You  have  guessed  my  thought,"  murmured 
Gargilianus,  for  whom  the  goose-liver  with  saffron 
sauce  was  proving  to  have  been  too  much.  Almost 
always,  at  the  very  end  of  a  supper,  along  with  a 
heaviness  in  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  he  felt  a  revolt 
against  literature. 

"Litterarum  intemperantia  laboramus,"  as 
Nero's  teacher,  the  clever  Seneca,  expressed  it. 
"Yes,  yes,  that  is  our  trouble!  We  suffer  from 
literary  intemperance.  We  poison  ourselves." 

And  falling  into  meditation,  he  produced  a 
toothpick  of  mastic-wood.  His  fat,  wise  face 
expressed  disgust  and  weariness. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
JULIAN  AND  ARSINOE. 

They  descended  the  cypress  alley  to  the  sea. 
The  silver  pathway  of  the  moon  spread  out  to  the 
horizon.  The  breakers  murmured  among  the 
limestone  boulders  on  the  beach.  A  semi-circular 
bench  stood  near. 

Above  it,  Artemis  the  Huntress,  in  a  short 
tunic,  with  a  crescent  moon  in  her  hair,  with  a 
bow  and  quiver,  and  with  two  sharp-nosed  dogs, 
seemed  alive  in  the  shining  moonlight.  They  sat 
down. 

Arsinoe  directed  Julian's  eyes  to  the  hill  of  the 
Acropolis,  with  the  faintly  gleaming  columns  of 
the  Parthenon,  and  renewed  the  conversation 
which  they  had  more  than  once  taken  up  in  previ- 
ous meetings. 

"See  how  beautiful  it  is.  And  you  would  destroy 
it,  Julian?" 

Without  answering,  he  lowered  his  eyes. 

"I  have  thought  much  of  what  we  said  last  time, 
and  what  you  told  me  about  your  humility,"  con- 
tinued Arsinoe,  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  to  herself. 
"Was  Alexander  of  Macedon  humble?  And  yet 
was  he  not  great  and  beautiful?" 

Julian  remained  silent. 

"And   Brutus,    Brutus   who    slew    Caesar!      If 

Brutus  had  turned   the  left  cheek,   when  they 

struck  him  on  the  right,  do  you  think  he  would 

have  been  grander?     Or  do  you  Galileans  count 

138 


Julian  and  Arsinoe.  139 

him  an  evil-doer?  Why  does  it  seem  to  me  at 
times  that  you  are  dissembling? — that  you  are 
weary  of  that  black  robe?" 

She  suddenly  turned  her  lovely  face  toward  him, 
bright  in  the  moonlight,  and  gazed  straight  into 
his  eyes,  with  a  steady  glance. 

"What  do  you  want,  Arsinoe?"  he  asked,  grow- 
ing pale. 

"I  want  you  to  be  my  open  foe!"  exclaimed  the 
girl,  passionately.  "You  cannot  pass  by  like  that, 
without  saying  who  you  are.  Do  you  know,  I 
sometimes  think  it  were  better  if  Athens  and 
Rome  were  in  ruins.  Better  to  burn  the  corpse, 
than  to  leave  it  unburied.  And  all  those  friends 
of  ours,  the  grammarians,  the  rhetoricians,  the 
verse-makers,  the  writers  of  panegyrics  to  the 
emperor, — are  the  rotting  body  of  Hellas  and 
Rome.  They  frighten  me,  like  the  dead.  Yes, 
you  may  exult,  Galileans!  Soon  nought  will 
remain  on  the  earth  but  dead  bodies  and  ruins. 
And  you,  Julian.  No,  No!  It  cannot  be.  I  do 
not  believe  that  you  are  with  them, — against  me, 
against  Hellas!" 

Julian  stood  before  her  pale  and  silent.  He 
wished  to  go  away.  She  caught  him  by  the  arm: 

"Say,  say  that  you  are  my  enemy,"  she  cried 
with  defiance  and  despair  in  her  voice. 

"Arsinoe!  why?" 

"Tell  all!  I  wish  to  know.  Do  you  not  feel 
how  near  we  are  to  each  other?  Or  are  you 
afraid?" 

"In  two  days  I  leave  Athens,"  whispered  Julian. 
"Farewell." 

"You  leave  Athens?    Why?    Whither?" 

"A  letter  from  Constantius.    The  emperor  sum- 


140  Julian  the  Apostate. 

mons  me  to  the  court,  perhaps  to  death.    I  think 
I  now  see  you  for  the  last  time." 

"Julian,  you  do  not  believe  in  Him?"  exclaimed 
Arsinoe,  trying  to  catch  the  monk's  glance. 

"Hush!  hush!    What  are  you  asking?" 

He  sprang  up  from  the  bench,  went  hack,  step- 
ping softly,  peering  on  all  sides  along  the  pathway 
flooded  with  moonlight,  at  the  black  shadows  of 
the  bushes,  even  at  the  sea,  as  if  the  emperor's 
spies  might  be  lurking  everywhere. 

Then  he  returned,  sat  down  again,  still  ill  at 
ease.  Eesting  his  arm  on  the  marble,  he  bent 
down  to  her  ear,  so  that  she  felt  his  hot  breath, 
and  whispered  quickly,  like  a  man  delirious: 

"Yes,  yes,  am  I  likely  to  believe  in  Him? 
Listen,  girl,  I  will  tell  you  now  what  I  have  not 
even  dared  to  tell  myself.  I  hate  the  Galilean! 
But  I  have  lied  ever  since  I  can  remember.  The 
lie  has  entered  into  my  soul,  and  has  clung  there, 
as  this  black  robe  clings  to  my  body:  you  remem- 
ber the  poisoned  shirt  of  Nessus?  Heracles  tried 
to  tear  it  off,  with  pieces  of  his  flesh  and  blood,  but 
could  not;  and  so  perished.  So  shall  I  perish  in 
the  Galilean  lie!" 

He  uttered  every  word  with  a  heavy  stress. 
Arsinoe  looked  up  at  him.  His  face,  strained  with 
suffering  and  hate,  seemed  strange  to  her. 

"Calm  yourself,  friend,"  she  murmured,  "tell 
me  all;  I  shall  understand  you  better  than  any 
one." 

"I  wish  to  tell,  but  do  not  know  how,"  he 
laughed  bitterly.  "I  have  kept  silent  too  long. 
You  see,  Arsinoe,  that  onct  you  have  fallen  into 
his  clutches,  it  is  finished, — the  meek  and  lowly 
one  will  disfigure  you  so,  teaching  you  to  lie  and 


Julian  and  A:  since.  141 

crawl,  that  you  will  never  become  straight,  or 
raise  your  head  again." 

All  the  blood  flowed  to  his  face,  the  veins  stood 
out  on  his  forehead,  and  gnashing  his  teeth  in 
impotent  rage,  he  whispered: 

"Baseness!  baseness!  true  Galileans,  baseness, — 
to  hate  my  enemy  as  I  now  hate  Constantius,  and 
to  forgive  him  and  crawl  like  a  serpent  at  his  feet 
according  to  the  humble  habit  of  the  Christians, 
begging  for  mercy.  Just  a  year  more, — one  little 
year  of  life,  for  thy  wretched  slave,  the  monk 
Julian,  then, — as  may  be  pleasing  to  thee  and  thy 
eunuch  counsellors,  oh  favorite  of  God!"  What 
cowardice!" 

"N"o,  Julian,"  exclaimed  Arsinoe,  "you  will  con- 
quer! To  dissemble  is  your  strength.  You  re- 
member, in  ^Esop's  fable,  the  ass  in  the  lion's 
skin?  Here  is  the  opposite, — the  lion  in  the  skin 
of  the  ass,  the  hero  in  the  monkish  robe!" 

She  burst  out  laughing: 

"And  how  frightened  they  will  be,  the  fools, 
when  you  suddenly  show  your  lion's  claws.  What 
a  rejoicing  and  panic  there  will  be!  Tell  me  that 
you  long  for  power?" 

"Power!"  He  struck  his  hands  together,  drink- 
ing in  the  sound  of  the  word,  and  breathing  a 
deep  breath  of  the  cool  night  air: 

"Power!  Oh,  if  for  one  year,  a  few  months^ a 
few  days,  I  had  power, — I  would  teach  these 
humble,  crawling,  venomous  creatures  who  call 
themselves  Christians,  the  meaning  of  that  wise 
word  of  the  Teacher, — 'unto  Caesar  the  things  that 
are  Ca?sarV — yes,  I  swear  by  the  god  of  the  sun, 
they  would  render  to  me,  as  Caesar,  what  is 
Caesar's." 


142  Julian  the  Apostate. 

He  raised  his  head,  his  eyes  flashing  with  pride 
and  wrath,  his  face  lit  up,  as  though  he  had  sud- 
denly grown  younger.  Arsinoe  watched  him  with 
a  smile. 

But  soon  his  head  sank  down  again.  Glancing 
round  fearfully,  he  sat  down  on  the  bench.  Invol- 
untarily, he  folded  his  arms  on  his  breast,  after 
the  manner  of  the  monks,  and  murmured: 

"No,  no,  why  should  I  deceive  myself?  That 
will  never  be.  I  shall  perish.  Wrath  will  kill  me. 
Listen:  every  night,  after  a  day  spent  on  my  knees 
in  the  church  among  the  relics,  I  return  home, 
worn  out  and  weary,  and  throw  myself  down  on 
my  bed,  and,  burying  my  face  in  the  pillow,  I  cry 
out,  and  gnaw  it,  to  smother  the  sound  of  my  pain 
and  wrath.  Oh,  you  know  little  of  the  terror  and 
taint  of  the  Galilean,  Arsinoe!  I  have  been  dying 
in  it  twenty  years,  and  am  not  dead,  because  we 
Christians  are  as  full  of  life  as  serpents;  cut  us  in 
two,  we  grow  together  again.  Formerly,  I  sought 
comfort  among  the  theurgians  and  the  sages.  In 
vain.  I  am  neither  a  worker  of  righteousness  nor 
a  sage.  I  am  evil,  and  I  wish  to  be  yet  more  evil, 
to  be  strong  and  terrible,  like  the  devil,  my  only 
brother!  But  why,  why  can  I  not  forget  that  there 
is  something  more,  that  there  is  beauty;  why  have 
you  appeared  to  me,  merciless  one?" 

With  a  sudden  movement,  opening  her  beau- 
tiful, bare  arms,  Arsinoe  clasped  him  round  the 
neck,  and  drew  him  to  her  so  strongly,  so  close, 
that  he  felt  the  innocent  freshness  of  her  body, 
and  whispered: 

"What  if  I  came  to  you,  youth,  as  an  inspiring 
Sibyl,  to  foretell  your  glory?  You  alone  are  liv- 
ing amongst  the  dead.  You  are  glorious!  What 


Julian  and  Arsinoe.  143 

is  it  to  me  that  you  have  not  white  swans'  wings, 
but  wings  terrible  and  black,  curved,  cruel  claws, 
like  a  wild  beast?  I  love  all  who  do  not  submit, 
and  are  recusant;  Julian,  I  love  lonely  and  proud 
eagles  more  than  white  swans.  Be  more  glorious, 
more  evil!  Dare  to  be  evil  to  the  end.  Lie  with- 
out shame.  Better  lie  than  submit.  Do  not  fear 
hatred:  it  is  the  strong  vigor  of  your  wings.  Will 
you  make  a  compact  with  me? — you  shall  give  me 
power;  I  shall  give  you  beauty.  Will  you,  Julian?" 

Through  the  light  folds  of  her  antique  peplum, 
once  again,  as  formerly  in  the  palestra,  he  saw  the 
clear  outlines  of  Arsinoe's  naked  body,  Artemis 
the  Huntress,  as  it  seemed  to  him  to  glow,  soft  and 
golden,  through  the  airy  drapery. 

His  head  grew  confused.  In  the  moonlit  twi- 
light that  surrounded  them,  he  saw  bold,  laughing 
lips  draw  near  his  lips. 

For  the  last  time,  he  thought: 

"I  must  go;  she  does  not  love  me,  and  will  never 
love  me;  she  desires  power  only.  It  is  deceit.'* 

But  he  immediately  added,  with  a  helpless 
smile: 

"Well,  let  it  be  deceit!" 

And  the  cold  of  her  strange,  unsatisfying  kiss 
pierced  to  the  depths  of  his  heart,  like  the  chill  of 
death. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  virgin  Artemis  herself, 
through  the  transparent  moonlight,  had  descended 
and  kissed  him  with  a  deceptive  kiss,  like  the  cold, 
soft  moonlight. 

On  the  next  morning,  the  two  friends,  Basil  of 
Cesarea,  and  Gregory  of  Nazianzan,  met  Julian  in 
an  Athenian  basilica. 


144  Julian  the  Apostate. 

He  was  kneeling  before  an  image,  praying.  The 
friends  looked  at  him  in  wonder.  They  had  never 
seen  in  his  features  such  humility,  such  clearness. 

"Brother,"  whispered  Basil  in  his  -friend's  ear, 
"we  have  sinned  against  him;  we  have  condemned 
the  just  in  our  hearts." 

Gregory  nodded  his  head: 

"May  God  forgive  me  if  I  was  wrong,"  he  re- 
plied, slowly,  without  taking  his  deep,  penetrating 
eyes  from  Julian,  "but  remember,  brother  Basil, 
how  often  the  Devil  himself,  the  father  of  lies,  has 
appeared  to  me  in  the  form  of  an  angel  of  light." 


CHAPTER  XV. 
THE  COURT  OF  CONSTANTIUS. 

On  a  lamp  pedestal,  in  the  form  of  a  dolphin, 
was  placed  a  pair  of  curling-tongues.  The  flame 
looked  pale,  because  the  morning  rays,  striking 
straight  on  the  curtains,  filled  the  dressing-room 
with  a  dense,  ruddy-violet  radiance.  The  silk  of 
the  curtains  was  dyed  with  the  most  costly  of  all 
purples,  the  so-called  oxyblatta,  hyacinth-colored, 
from  Tyre,  dyed  thrice. 

"Hypostasis?  What  is  the  divine  Hypostasis  of 
the  Trinity?  No  mortal  can  apprehend  it.  I  lay 
awake  all  night  long  and  thought,  for  I  have  a 
great  passion  for  thinking.  But  my  thoughts 
attained  nothing,  except  a  headache.  Boy,  give 
me  the  towel,  and  soap." 

The  speaker  had  a  majestic  appearance,  and 
wore  a  mitre  on  his  head,  like  a  high-priest,  or  an 


The  Court  of  Constantius.  145 

Asian  prince.  He  was  the  senior  barber  and  wig- 
maker  to  the  sacred  person  of  the  emperor.  Shav- 
ing, in  his  skilled  and  almost  magical  hands,  pro- 
ceeded with  inimitable  grace  and  ease.  The 
barber,  as  it  were,  performed  a  mystery,  a  sacred 
rite.  On  either  hand,  besides  the  Dignitary  of  the 
Most  August  Bedchamber,  Eusebius  the  most 
powerful  man  in  the  empire,  besides  innumerable 
bed-makers, — "cubicularii," — with  different  ves- 
sels, unguents,  towels  and  basins,  stood  two  boys 
with  fans.  During  the  whole  mystery  of  the  shav- 
ing, they  fanned  the  emperor  with  broad,  fine  fans, 
in  the  form  of  silver  six-winged  seraphs,  like  the 
sacramental  fans  with  which  the  deacons  drive 
away  flies  from  the  holy  elements,  during  the 
sacrament.  The  barber  had  just  finished  the  em- 
peror's right  cheek,  and  was  proceeding  to  the 
left,  lathering  it  sedulously  with  soap  scented  with 
Arabian  essences,  called  the  foam  of  Aphrodite. 
He  whispered,  bending  to  Constantius'  ear,  so  that 
no  one  else  could  hear: 

"Oh,  god-loving  emperor,  thy  all-embracing 
mind  alone  can  decide  what  are  the  three  Hypo- 
stases,  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy 
Ghost.  Do  not  listen  to  the  bishops.  It  is  not 
as  pleases  them,  but  as  pleases  you.  Athanasius, 
the  Alexandrian  patriarch,  should  be  put  to  death 
for  an  obstinate  and  blasphemous  rebel.  God  the 
Creator  himself  will  reveal  to  your  Sanctity  what 
and  how  your  slaves  should  believe.  As  I  appre- 
hend, Arius  is  right  in  affirming  that  there  was  a 
time  when,  the  Son  was  not.  And  so  concerning 
unity  of  substance." 

But  at  this  point  Concfantius  glanced  at  the 
huge  mirror  of  polished  silver,  and  feeling  the 


146  Julian  the  Apostate. 

freshly-shaven  silky  surface  of  his  right  cheek 
with  his  hand,  interrupted  the  barber: 

"It  does  not  seem  quite  smooth.  Eh?  You 
may  go  over  it  once  more.  What  were  you  saying 
about  unity  of  substance?" 

The  barber,  who  had  received  a  talent  of  gold 
from  the  Court  bishops,  Ursacius  and  Valens,  to 
prepare  the  emperor  for  the  new  Confession  of 
Faith,  quickly  and  stealthily  whispered  in  Con- 
stantius'  ear,  with  marvelous  softness  carrying  on 
the  shaving,  as  though  caressing  his  neck.  But  at 
this  moment  the  notary  Paulus  approached  the 
emperor.  He  bore  the  nickname  of  Catena,  the 
chain,  because  he  wove  the  unbreaking  links  of 
evidence  so  skilfully  round  the  necks  of  his  des- 
tined victims.  Paulus'  face  was  effeminate,  beard- 
less and  handsome.  Judging  by  his  outward 
person,  angelic  mildness  might  have  been  attrib- 
uted to  him.  His  eyes  were  dull,  black,  veiled. 
He  walked  inaudibly,  with  a  swaying  grace  in  his 
soft  movements.  On  his  upper  cloak,  the  penula, 
across  the  notary's  shoulder  was  thrown  a  wide 
dark  blue  ribbon  or  scarf  of  service,  a  special  mark 
of  the  emperor's  favor.  Paulus  Catena  pushed 
aside  the  senior  barber  with  a  soft  and  haughty 
gesture,  and  bending  over,  spoke  in  Constantius' 
ear: 

"A  letter  of  Julian's.  I  seized  it  last  night. 
Does  it  please  you  to  have  it  unsealed?" 

Constantius  hungrily  tore  the  letter  from  Pau- 
lus' hand,  opened  it,  and  began  to  read.  But  he 
was  soon  disillusioned: 

"Nonsense,"  he  said,  "an  exercise  in  rhetoric. 
He  sends  a  present  of  a  hundred  grapes  to  some 


The  Court  of  Constantius.  147 

sophist,  and  writes  praises  of  grapes,  and  of  the 
number  one  hundred." 

"Oh,  that  is  craftiness,"  remarked  Catena. 

"Is  it  possible,"  asked  Constantius,  "that  there 
is  no  evidence?" 

"None  at  all." 

"He  is  either  artful,  or — " 

"What  did  your  Eternity  wish  to  say?" 

"Or  innocent." 

"As  may  please  you,"  whispered  Paulus. 

"As  may  please  me?  I  wish  to  be  just,  only 
just;  do  you  not  know  that?  I  need  proofs." 

"Wait.    There  will  be  proofs." 

Another  spy  appeared,  a  young  Persian,  Mer- 
curious  by  name,  and  by  vocation,  the  court  cup- 
bearer, almost  a  boy,  yellow-faced,  and  black-eyed. 
He  was  not  less  feared  than  Paulus  Catena,  and  was 
jestingly  called  the  Dignitary  of  Dreams  and  Vis- 
ions. If  a  prophetic  dream  could  have  a  meaning 
ominous  for  the  person  of  the  emperor,  Mercurius, 
hearing  of  it,  hastened  to  inform  the  emperor. 
Many  paid  with  their  property  and  court  career  for 
having  been  careless  enough  to  dream  what  they 
should  not  have  dreamed.  The  crafty  courtiers 
began  to  assert  that  they  suffered  from  incurable 
insomnia,  and  they  envied  the  inhabitants  of  the 
fabulous  Atlantis,  who  slept,  as  Plato  tells,  with- 
out beholding  dreams. 

Two  Ethiopian  eunuchs  were  tying  the  strings 
on  the  emperor's  shoes,  embroidered  with  golden 
eagles,  and  made  of  bright  green  leather,  a  color 
consecrated  to  the  foot-wear  of  the  emperor  alone. 
The  Persian  pushed  the  eunuchs  aside  and  em- 
braced his  protector's  feet,  kissed  them,  and  looked 


148  Julian  the  Apostate. 

up  in  his  eyes,  as  a  dog  looks  up  in  the  eyes  of  its 
master  fawning  and  wagging  its  tail. 

"May  your  Eternity  pardon  me,"  murmured  the 
little  Mercurius,  with  a  childlike  and  innocent 
affection,  "I  could  not  endure  it,  and  ran  to  you 
as  quick  as  I  could.  Gaudentius  has  had  a  bad 
dream.  You  appeared  to  him,  in  a  torn  garment, 
and  in  a  crown  of  empty  wheat-ears,  pointing 
downward." 

"What  does  that  mean?" 

"The  empty  wheat-ears  mean  hunger,  and  the 
torn  purple, — I  dare  not  say." 

"Sickness?" 

"Worse,  perhaps.  Gaudentius'  wife  admitted  to 
me  that  he  had  consulted  the  fortune-tellers.  God 
knows  what  he  heard  from  them." 

"Good;  we  will  talk  of  it  later.  Come  in  the 
evening." 

"No;  now.  Order  the  torture,  the  lighter  one, 
without  fire.  And  there  is  the  matter  of  the  table- 
cloths." 

"What  table-cloths?" 

"Have  you  forgotten?  At  a  feast  in  Aquitania, 
the  table  was  covered  with  two  table-cloths,  with 
such  wide  purple  borders  that  they  almost  looked 
like  imperial  cloaks." 

"More  than  two  fingers  wide?  I  allowed  bor- 
ders two  fingers  wide  by  law." 

"Oh,  far  wider.  As  I  say,  a  regular  imperial 
cloak.  Think  of  it,  such  a  sacred  decoration  on 
a  table-cloth!" 

Mercurius  had  not  time  to  tell  all  the  tales  he 
had  gathered. 

"A  monster  was  born  in  Daphne,"  he  muttered, 
hastily,  and  hesitatingly,  "four  ears,  four  eyes,  two 


The  Court  of  Constantius.  149 

tusks,  and  all  covered  with  hair.  The  soothsayers 
say  it  is  a  bad  sign,  of  the  division  of  the  Holy 
Empire." 

"Let  us  see.  Write  it  all  down,  in  order,  and 
present  it." 

The  emperor  finished  his  morning  toilet.  He 
looked  once  more  in  the  mirror,  and  with  a  fine 
brush  took  a  little  rouge  from  a  silver  holder,  of 
filagree  work,  in  the  shape  of  a  little  shrine,  with 
a  cross  on  the  top.  Constantius  was  pious.  Innu- 
merable crosses  and  monograms  of  the  Christ  were 
seen  in  all  corners,  on  all  sorts  of  trifles.  A  special 
kind  of  very  precious  rouge,  called  purpurissima, 
was  prepared  from  the  rosy  foam  which  they 
skimmed  from  the  boiling  juice  of  purple  shells. 
Constantius  artistically  applied  a  brush  dipped  in 
this  rouge  to  his  hard,  dusky  cheeks.  From  the 
room  called  the  Porphyria,  where  the  imperial 
robes  were  kept  in  a  special  five-storied  wardrobe, 
the  eunuchs  brought  the  emperor's  Dalmatian 
cloak,  stiff,  almost  unpliable,  heavy  with  precious 
stones  and  gold,  with  winged-lions  and  dragons 
embroidered  on  the  amethyst-colored  purple.  That 
day,  in  the  chief  hall  of  the  palace  of  Mediolanum, 
there  was  to  be  held  a  council  of  the  Arian  bishops. 

The  emperor  went  thither,  along  the  transverse 
gallery  of  marble.  The  court-guards,  the  Pala- 
tines, stood  in  two  rows  silent  as  statues,  with 
upraised  spears  fourteen  cubits  long.  The  stand- 
ard, brought  in  by  the  Dignitary  of  Most  Holy 
Bounties  (Comes  Sacrarum  Largitionum)  the 
golden  Labarum  of  Constantino  with  the  mono- 
gram of  Christ,  glittered  and  gleamed.  The 
speechless  guards  (silentarii),  ran  in  front,  and 
with  gestures  admonished  all  to  reverent  stillness. 


150  Julian  the  Apostate. 

In  the  gallery  the  emperor  met  his  consort, 
Eusebia  Aurelia.  She  was  a  woman  no  longer 
young,  with  a  pale  and  weary  face,  with  refined 
and  noble  features.  Sometimes  malicious  mockery 
flashed  in  her  penetrating  eyes.  The  empress 
placed  her  hands  on  the  omoformm,  shining  with 
rubies  and  sapphires,  cut  in  the  form  of  a  heart, 
and  bowed  her  head,  giving  the  customary  morn- 
ing greeting. 

"I  have  come  to  be  favored  with  the  light  of 
your  countenance,  my  consort  favored  by  God. 
How  did  your  Holiness  deign  to  pass  the  night?" 

Then  in  obedience  to  a  sign  from  her,  two  ladies 
of  the  court,  Euphrosyne  and  Theophane,  who 
were  supporting  her  arms,  went  a  little  distance 
away,  and  she  said  in  a  low  voice  to  her  husband, 
with  a  more  sincere  and  simple  accent : 

"Julian  is  to  be  presented  to  you  to-day.  Be 
gracious  to  him.  Do  not  believe  the  spies.  He  is 
an  unhappy  and  guiltless  boy.  God  will  be  graci- 
ous to  you,  if  you  are  gracious  to  him,  sire!" 

"You  ask  favor  for  him?" 

Wife  and  husband  interchanged  a  swift  glance. 

"I  know."  she  said,  "that  you  always  trust  me. 
Trust  me  this  time  also.  Julian  is  a  faithful  ser- 
vant. Do  not  refuse.  Be  gracious  to  him." 

And  she  bestowed  one  of  those  smiles  on  him, 
which  still  had  power  over  the  emperor's  heart. 

In  the  portico,  separated  from  the  main  hall  by 
a  tapestry  curtain,  .behind  which  the  emperor 
liked  to  listen  to  what  was  going  on  at  the  sittings 
of  the  bishops,  a  monk  with  a  cruciform  tonsure 
approached  him.  He  wore  a  tunic  with  a  hood, 
of  coarse,  dark  stuff.  It  was  Julian. 


ThS-  Court  of  Constantius.  151 

He  bowed  the  knee  before  Constantius,  and 
kissed  the  border  of  the  emperor's  Dalmatian  robe. 

"I  greet  my  benefactor,  the  victorious  and 
mighty  emperor  Augustus  Constantius.  May 
your  Holiness  be  gracious  to  me/'  he  said. 

"We  are  glad  to  see  you,  our  son." 

Julian's  cousin  graciously  stretched  his  hand 
out  almost  to  his  lips.  Julian  kissed  that  hand, 
on  which  was  the  blood  of  his  father,  of  his 
brother,  of  all  his  kindred. 

The  monk  arose,  pale,  with  glowing  eyes  bent 
on  his  enemy.  He  gripped  the  handle  of  a  keen 
dagger,  hidden  under  his  robe.  The  small,  leaden- 
grey  eyes  of  the  emperor  gleamed  with  vanity,  and 
only  rarely  did  a  crafty  cunning  break  forth  in 
them.  He  was  of  small  stature,  a  head  shorter 
than  Julian,  but  broad-shouldered,  evidently 
strong  and  vigorous.  His  legs  were  ugly  and  bent, 
like  those  of  old  warriors  who  have  long  been 
accustomed  to  riding  on  horseback.  The  dusky 
skin  on  his  temples  and  cheekbones  was  disagree- 
ably glossy.  His  thin  lips  were  tightly  pressed 
together,  as  are  the  lips  of  people  who  love  exacti- 
tude and  order  more  than  anything  else  in  the 
world.  Old  pedantic  teachers  have  this  expression. 

To  Julian,  all  this  seemed  detestable:  he  felt  a 
blind,  bestial  madness  overcoming  him.  Unable 
to  pronounce  a  word,  he  lowered  his  eyes,  and 
breathed  heavily. 

Constantius  smiled,  thinking  that  the  youth 
could  not  endure  his  kingly  presence,  and  was 
bewildered  at  the  more  than  earthly  majesty  of  the 
Roman  emperor.  Pompously,  but  graciously,  he 
said: 

"Fear  not,  youth!    Go  in  peace.     Our  benevo- 


152  Julian  the  Apostate..- 

lence  accounts  no  evil  to  you,  and  will  not  hence- 
forth desert  your  orphaned  estate,  or  fail  to 
guard  it." 

Julian  entered  the  council  hall,  and  the  em- 
peror took  his  stand  beside  the  tapestry;  he  laid 
his  ear  to  it  and,  with  an  expression  of  cunning 
mockery,  began  to  listen. 

He  recognized  the  voice  of  the  chief  superin- 
tendent of  the  imperial  post,  Gaudentius,  who  had 
seen  the  bad  dream: 

"Assembly  after  assembly,"  Gaudentius  was 
complaining  to  some  magnate  or  other,  "now  in 
Sirmiam,  now  in  Sardis,  now  in  Antioch,  now  in 
Constantinople.  They  quarrel  and  cannot  come 
to  an  agreement  about  unity  of  substance.  But 
they  should  have  some  pity  on  the  post-horses. 
They  gallop  along  at  breakneck  speed  along  the 
royal  post -roads.  Now  forward,  now  backward, 
now  from  the  east,  now  from  the  west.  And  with 
them  whole  clouds  of  presbyters,  deacons,  church 
servants,  clerks.  It  means  ruin!  Out  of  ten 
horses  in  the  post-stables,  you  will  hardly  find  one 
that  the  bishops  have  not  ridden  to  death.  Five 
more  Councils,  and  all  my  steeds  will  be  used  up, 
and  the  wheels  will  be  off  all  the  imperial  car- 
riages. Perfectly  true!  And  observe  that  in  spite 
of  it  all  the  bishops  do  not  come  to  an  agreement 
about  the  Hypostases  and  consubstantiality!" 

"Why,  most  honorable  Gaudentius,  do  you  not 
report  this  to  the  emperor?" 

"I  am  afraid.  He  will  not  believe  me,  and  will 
hold  me  guilty  of  godlessness,  of  disrespect  for  the 
needs  of  the  Church." 

In  the  enormous  round  hall,  with  cupola  and 
columns  of  greenish-veined  Phrygian  marble,  the 


The  Court  of  Constantius.  153 

air  was  close.  Slanting  rays  fell  from  the  window 
under  the  arches.  The  noise  of  voices  recalled 
the  hum  of  a  beehive. 

This  was  the  Arian  Council. 

On  a  raised  dais  a  throne  for  the  emperor  was 
prepared,  a  sella  aurea,  with  lion's  feet  of  ivory, 
crossed  like  the  folding  curule  chairs  of  the  old 
Roman  consuls. 

Near  the  throne,  the  presbyter  Paphnytius,  with 
a  simple-minded  but  heated  face,  was  affirming: 

"I,  Paphnytius,  as  I  heard  from  my  fathers,  so 
have  I  held  in  my  thoughts.  According  to  the 
creed  of  our  holy  father  Athanasius,  patriarch  of 
Alexandria,  we  must  give  our  adherence  to  the 
Unity  in  Trinity,  and  the  Trinity  in  Unity.  The 
Father  is  God,  the  Son  is  God,  the  Holy  Ghost  is 
God.  But  there  are  not  three  Gods,  but  one  God!" 

And  as  if  overwhelming  an  unseen  enemy,  with 
all  his  might  he  struck  the  great  fist  of  his  right 
hand  on  the  palm  of  the  left,  and  turned  a  trium- 
phant gaze  on  all: 

"As  I  have  received  it,  so  shall  I  believe/' 

"Eh?  What  is  it?  What  does  he  say?"  asked 
Otius,  a  centenarian  contemporary  of  the  great 
Nicene  Council.  "Where  is  my  ear-horn?" 

Helpless  bewilderment  was  revealed  in  his  face. 
He  was  deaf,  almost  blind,  and  wore  a  long,  grey 
beard.  The  deacon  handed  him  the  ear-horn,  and 
the  old  man  raised  it  to  his  ear. 

A  pale,  lean,  fasting  monk  caught  Paphnytius 
by  the  surplice,  with  a  look  of  entreaty: 

"Oh,  father  Paphnytius,"  he  tried  to  shout  him 
down,  "what  is  this?  For  one  word,  all  for  one 
word,  'of  like  substance'  or  fof  one  substance!'  " 

And  the  monk,  grasping  Paphnytius'  garment, 


154  Julian  the  Apostate. 

told  him  of  the  terrible  things  which  he  had  seen 
in  Alexandria  and  Constantinople. 

The  Arians  opened  the  mouths  of  those  who 
were  unwilling  to  receive  the  Holy  Sacrament  in 
heretical  churches,  with  a  wooden  implement  of 
two  pieces  of  wood  like  a  stake,  and  forced  the 
holy  elements  down  their  throats.  They  tortured 
children.  They  crushed  women  in  vises,  or  burned 
their  breasts  with  hot  irons.  In  the  church  of  the 
holy  Apostles  there  was  such  a  fight  between  th-; 
Arians  and  the  Orthodox,  that  the  blood  filled  the 
rain-cistern,  and  poured  out  on  the  square  from 
the  porch-steps.  In  Alexandria,  the  Governor 
Sebastian  whipped  the  orthodox  virgins  with 
thorny  palm-leaves,  so  that  many  of  them  died, 
and  the  dishonored,  unburied  bodies  lay  before 
the  city  gates.  And  all  this,  not  merely  for  one 
word,  but  for  one  letter,  for  an  iota,  distinguishing 
the  Greek  word  "homoousios," — "of  one  sub- 
stance," from  "homoiousios," — "of  like  sub- 
stance." 

"Oh,  father  Paphnytius,"  repeated  the  humble, 
pale  monk,  "for  a  single  iota!  And  most  of  all, 
tbe  word  'substance'  is  not  found  at  all  in  the 
Holy  Scriptures.  Whv  then  do  we  quarrel,  and 
torment  each  other?  Think,  father,  how  terrible 
is  our  sin!" 

"What  then?"  Paphnytius  interrupted  him: 
"are  we  to  make  peace  with  cursed  blasphemers, 
dogs,  who  vomit  up  from  their  unclean  hearts  that 
there  was  a  time  when  the  Holy  Son  of  God  was 
not?" 

"One  shepherd,  one  flock,"  timidly  replied  the 
monk,  defending  himself.  "Let  us  submit!" 

The  inexorable  Paphnytius  would  not  hear  him; 


The  Court  of  Constantius.  155 

he  shouted  till  the  veins  of  his  neck  strained,  and 
the  sweat  stood  on  his  temples. 

"Let  the  enemies  of  God  keep  silence!  Let  not 
this  thing  be!  I  anathematize  the  foul  Arian 
heresy!  As  I  have  received  from  my  fathers  so  I 
maintain  in  my  heart!"  he  concluded  in  a  voice  of 
thunder. 

The  centenarian  Otius  helplessly  nodded  his 
grey  head  in  assent. 

"Why  are  you  silent,  abbot  Dorotheus?  You 
contend  little  to-day,  or  are  you  weary  of  it?" 
Phoebus,  a  tall,  handsome  presbyter,  with  waving 
hair  as  black  as  pitch  and  uncommonly  long,  said 
to  a  bilious,  fiery  old  man: 

"I  am  hoarse,  father  Phoebus.  I  want  to  speak, 
but  I  have  no  voice.  I  strained  my  throat  the 
other  day,  when  they  were  overthrowing  the 
damned  heretics  in  the  Council,  and  for  two  days 
now  I  am  hoarse." 

"You  should  gargle  your  throat  with  a  raw  egg, 
father,  it  does  a  great  deal  of  good." 

In  another  group,  ^tius  the  deacon  of  Antioch, 
was  quarreling.  He  was  the  most  extreme  and 
daring  follower  of  Arius;  they  called  him  a  god- 
less atheist,  for  his  rude  and  scoffing  treatment 
of  the  Holy  Trinity.  His  face  was  gay  and  mock- 
ing. The  life  of  ^tius  was  marked  by  wonderful 
variety.  He  had  been  in  turns  a  slave,  a  copper- 
smith, a  day-laborer,  a  rhetorician,  a  doctor,  a 
teacher  of  philosophy  in  Alexandria,  and  finally  a 
deacon. 

"God  the  Father  is  in  substance  different  from 
His  Son,"  preached  -^tius,  with  a  smile  enjoying 
the  terror  of  his  hearers,  "the  persons  of  the  Trin- 
ity differ  in  glory  according  to  Hypostasis.  God 


156  Julian  the  Apostate. 

is  ineffable  for  His  Son  because  it  is  not  declared 
what  He  is,  as  to  Himself.  Even  the  Son  does 
not  know  His  substance,  because  it  is  impossible 
for  that  which  has  a  beginning  to  represent  or 
comprehend  the  Beginningless." 

"Do  not  blaspheme!"  wrathfully  exclaimed 
Theon,  bishop  of  Marmora.  "How  far,  my  broth- 
ers, will  the  satanic  insolence  of  the  heretics 
extend?" 

"Take  care,"  dictatorially  added  Sophronius, 
bishop  of  Pompeopolis,  "do  not  let  the  eloquence 
of  your  words  lead  astray  the  hearts  of  the  simple." 

"Show  me  some  philosophic  demonstration,  and 
I  will  agree,  but  cries  and  abuse  demonstrate  only 
impotence,"  quietly  replied  ^Etius. 

"In  the  Scripture,  it  is  said — "  Sophronius  was 
beginning. 

"What  have  I  to  do  with  the  Scripture?  God 
gave  men  reason,  to  know  Him.  I  believe  in  dia- 
lectics, and  not  in  texts.  Reason  with  me  support- 
ing yourselves  with  syllogisms,  after  the  categories 
of  Aristotle." 

And  he  cynically  wrapped  himself  in  his  dea- 
con's surplice,  like  Diogenes  in  his  philosophic 
gown. 

In  another  group,  the  bishops  were  gradually 
coming  to  a  common  understanding,  mutually 
yielding  to  each  other,  when  suddenly  the  Arian 
Narcissus  of  Neroniades  interposed  in  the  discus- 
sion. He  was  a  mighty  master  of  all  Council 
rules,  creeds,  and  canons,  a  man  who  was  not  loved, 
who  was  even  accused  of  carnal  lusts  and  usury, 
but  who  was  nevertheless  respected  for  his  theo- 
logical knowledge. 


The  Court  of  Constantius.  157 

"Heresy,"  he  exclaimed  to  the  bishops,  shortly 
and  peremptorily. 

"How,  heresy?  Why  heresy?"  enquired  several 
voices. 

"This  was  declared  heresy  at  the  council  of 
Paphlagonia." 

Narcissus  had  small,  crooked  eyes,  glittering 
with  an  evil  light,  and  an  equally  crooked  and  evil 
smile  on  his  venomous  lips.  His  hair,  stiff  and 
touched  with  grey,  was  like  bristles.  All  his  fea- 
tures seemed  to  be  twisted  with  malice. 

"In  the  council  of  Paphlagonia!"  repeated  the 
bishops,  in  despair,  "we  had  even  forgotten  there 
was  such  a  council.  What  are  we  to  do,  brothers?" 

Narcissus  triumphed,  glancing  from  one  to  the 
other  with  his  crooked  eyes. 

"May  God  have  mercy  on  as  sinners!"  cried  the 
gentle  and  simple-hearted  bishop  Eusoius,  "I 
understand  nothing  of  it  all!  I  am  altogether 
bewildered!  My  head  turns  round.  Homoousios, 
homoiousios,  consubstantial,  inconsubstantial, 
similitude,  hypostasis, — my  ears  are  ringing  with 
these  hard  names.  I  walk  as  in  a  mist,  and  T 
myself  do  not  know  what  I  believe,  and  what  I  do 
not  believe,  what  is  heresy,  what  is  not.  Jesus 
Christ,  King  of  Heaven,  help  us.  We  are  perish- 
ing in  the  nets  of  Satan!" 

At  that  moment,  the  noise  and  angry  cries 
ceased,  and  bishop  Ursacius  of  Singidon,  one  of 
the  court  favorites  of  the  emperor,  mounted  the 
pulpit.  In  his  hands  he  held  a  long  parchment 
roll.  Two  shorthand  writers  were  preparing  to 
record  the  doings  of  the  Council  in  their  books, 
and  were  sharpening  their  calami  of  slender  Egyp- 


158  Julian  the  Apostate. 

tian  reeds.  Ursacius  read  the  ordinance  of  the 
emperor,  addressed  to  the  bishops: 

"Constantius,  the  Victorious,  the  Triumphant, 
the  worthy  and  everliving  Augustus, — to  all  the 
bishops  assembled  in  Mediolanum." 

The  emperor  demanded  of  the  bishops  the  re- 
nunciation of  Athanasius,  the  patriarch  of  Alex- 
andria, in  coarse  and  undignified  expressions,  call- 
ing the  holy  and  universally  respected  old  man 
"the  basest  of  mortals,  a  traitor,  the  fellow  of  the 
insurgent  and  abominable  Maxentius." 

The  court  flatterers,  Valens,  Ensebius  and  Axen- 
tius,  were  the  first  to  sign  the  roll  of  deposition. 
But  a  murmur  was  heard: 

"All  that  is  the  accursed  machination,  the 
subtle  circumvention  of  the  Arian  deniers  of  the 
Christ.  "We  will  not  give  over  the  bishop  to 
infamy." 

"The  emperor  calls  himself  'everlasting.'  None 
is  everlasting  but  God!  Blasphemy!" 

Constantius  heard  the  last  words  clearly,  stand- 
ing behind  the  curtain.  He  pulled  the  tapestry 
aside,  and  unexpectedly  entered  the  hall  of  the 
Council.  The  spearsmen  surrounded  him.  The 
emperor's  face  was  wroth.  Silence  reigned. 

"What  is  it?  what  is  it?"  repeated  the  aged 
Otius,  and  bewilderment  and  dismay  were  on  his 
face. 

"Fathers,"  began  the  emperor,  restraining  his 
anger, — "permit  me,  the  servant  of  the  Most  Holy, 
under  His  Providence,  to  bring  my  zeal  to  a  con- 
clusion. Athanasius,  the  rebel,  the  first  disturber 
of  the  peace  of  the  world." 

Again  was  heard  a  hoarse  murmur. 


The  Court  of  Constantius.  159 

Constantius  became  silent,  and  turned  his  eyes 
on  the  bishops  with  astonishment. 

A  voice  in  the  crowd  spoke: 

"We  anathematize  the  abominable  Arian 
heresy!" 

"The  faith,"  exclaimed  the  emperor,  "which 
you  attack,  is  my  faith.  If  it  is  heretical,  why 
does  the  Lord,  who  upholds  all,  give  me  the  vic- 
tory over  all  my  enemies, — Constans,  Vetranion, 
Gallus,  the  insurgent  and  abominable  Maxentius? 
Why  has  God  placed  in  our  keeping  in  our  sacred 
right  hand,  the  scepter  of  the  world?" 

The  Fathers  kept  silence.  Then  the  court  flat- 
terer Valens  bowed  down  with  servile  humility: 

"God  opens  the  truth  to  thy  wisdom,  oh  ruler, 
favored  of  heaven.  That  which  thou  believest, 
cannot  be  heresy.  Not  in  vain  did  Cyril  of  Jeru- 
salem behold  a  miraculous  sign  in  the  heavens, 
the  day  of  thy  victory  over  Maxentius, — a  cross, 
surrounded  by  a  rainbow." 

"I  will  it  so,"  interrupted  Constantius,  rising 
from  the  throne,  "Athanasius  shall  be  deposed  by 
the  power  given  me  of  God.  Pray  that  at  last  all 
contentions  and  disputes  of  words  may  cease,  that 
the  ill-famed  and  murderous  heresy  of  the  Sabel- 
lians,  the  followers  of  the  infamous  Athanasius, 
may  be  annihilated;  that  the  truth  may  shine 
abroad  in  all  hearts." 

Suddenly  the  emperor's  face  grew  pale.  His 
words  died  on  his  lips. 

"What  is  this?    How  did  they  let  him  in?" 

He  pointed  to  a  tall  old  man,  with  a  stern  and 
majestic  face.  It  was  the  persecuted  and  deposed 
bishop  Hilary,  one  of  the  greatest  enemies  of  the 
emperor's  Arianism.  He  had  come  voluntarily  to 


160  Julian  the  Apostate. 

the  assembly  of  bishops,  expecting  torture  and 
death.  The  old  man  raised  his  hand  toward 
heaven,  as  if  calling  down  a  curse  on  the  head  of 
the  emperor,  and  his  strong  voice  resounded 
throughout  the  stillness  of  the  hall: 

"Brothers!  Now  Christ  cometh,  for  Antichrist 
has  already  conquered.  Constantius  is  Antichrist. 
He  strikes,  us  not  on  the  neck,  but  fawns  upon  our 
flesh;  he  casts  us  not  into  prison,  but  flatters  us 
in  kings'  houses.  Emperor,  hear:  I  say  to  thee 
what  I  would  have  said  to  Nero,  to  Decius,  to 
Maximian,  the  fierce  persecutors  of  the  Church. 
Thou  art  a  murderer,  not  of  men,  but  of  the  love 
of  God  itself.  Nero,  Decius  and  Maximian  served 
the  true  God  more  than  thou  dost.  In  their  days 
we  overcame  the  devil;  in  their  days  flowed  the 
blood  of  the  martyrs,  purifying  the  earth;  and 
their  dead  bones  worked  wonders.  And  thou, 
cruelest  of  men,  slayest  us,  but  givest  us  not  the 
glory  of  death.  Oh  Lord,  send  us  an  open  per- 
secutor, not  a  dissembling  foe,  one  like  unto  Nero 
and  Decius,,  that  the  beneficent  and  terrible 
weapon  of  Thy  wrath  may  restore  the  Church, 
rotted  by  the  Judas  kiss  of  Constantius!" 

The  emperor  sprang  from  the  throne: 

"Seize  him!  seize  him!  The  rebel,  and  all 
rebels!"  he  cried,  breathing  hard,  and  pointing  his 
finger  at  Hilary.  The  palatines  and  shield-bearers 
threw  themselves  on  the  bishop.  An  inexpressible 
tumult  arose.  Swords  flashed. 

The  Eoman  soldiers  bore  down  Hilary,  with 
coarse  insults,  tearing  the  omophorion,  stole,  and 
chasuble  from  him. 

Many  struggled  in  terror  toward  the  entrance 
doors,  fell,  and  crushed  and  trod  on  each  other. 


The  Court  of  Constantius.  161 

One  of  the  young  shorthand  writers  sprang  to  a 
window,  but  a  soldier  caught  him  by  his  long  robe, 
and  did  not  let  him  escape.  The  table  with  the 
ink-bottles  was  overturned,  and  the  red  ink  flowed 
across  the  blue  jasper  floor:  at  sight  of  the  red 
pools  many  cried  out: 

"Blood!  blood!  flee!" 

Others  shrieked:  "Death  to  the  foes  of  the  sub- 
lime Augustus!" 

Paphnytius,  dragged  along  by  two  court  guards, 
cried  out  in  a  voice  of  thunder: 

"I  recognize  the  Nicene  Council,  I  anathema- 
tize the  Arian  heresy!" 

Many  continued  to  shout: 

"Consubstantiality !" 

Others: 

"Let  it  not  be!    Likeness  of  substance!" 

Yet  others: 

"Silence,  enemies  of  God!  Anathema!  Let 
him  be  outcast!  The  Nicene  Council!  The  Sar- 
dian  Council!  The  Paphlagonian  Council!  Ana- 
thema!" 

Blind  Otius  sat  unmoved,  forgotten  by  all,  on 
his  episcopal  chair.  He  murmured,  in  a  hardly 
audible  voice: 

"Oh  Jesus  Christ,  Son  of  God,  have  mercy  on 
us!  What  have  we  come  to,  brothers?" 

But  he  wrung  his  feeble  hands  in  vain,  stretch- 
ing them  forth  toward  the  tumultuous  and  mad- 
dened crowd;  in  vain  he  repeated  in  despair: 
''Brothers,  what  are  we  doing?"  No  one  saw  or 
heard  him.  And  pitiable,  helpless  tears  streamed 
down  his  centenarian  wrinkles. 

Julian  watched  with  a  contemptuous  smile,  and 
triumphed  in  silence. 


162  Julian  the  Apostate. 

Late  in  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  in  the 
silence  of  the  desert  among  the  hills  to  the  east  of 
Mediolanum,  two  monks,  anchorites  from  Meso- 
potamia, sent  to  the  Council  hy  the  distant  bishops 
of  Syria,  were  hastening  from  the  city. 

They  had  barely  escaped  from  the  hands  of  the 
court  guards,  and  were  now  hastening  on  their 
way  to  Eavenna,  to  get  on  board  ship  and  return 
to  their  deserts  as  quickly  as  possible.  Weariness 
and  indignation  were  expressed  on  their  faces. 
One  of  them,  Ephraim,  was  an  old  man;  the  other 
Pimenius  was  a  youth.  Ephraim  addressed  Pime- 
nius: 

"Time  for  us  to  go  to  the  desert,  my  brother. 
Better  to  hear  the  howling  of  jackals  and  lions, 
than  what  we  heard  to-days  in  kings'  houses.  Oh 
my  sweet  child,  blessed  are  the  silent.  Blessed 
are  they  who  surround  themselves  with  a  fence  of 
quietness,  that  the  wrangling  of  the  contentious 
may  not  come  near  them.  Blessed  are  they  who 
comprehend  the  nothingness  of  words,  and  who 
dispute  not.  Blessed  is  he  who  does  not  enquire 
into  the  mysteries  of  the  Highest,  but  sings  before 
Thy  face,  oh  God,  like  a  harp.  Blessed  is  he  who 
has  understood  how  hard  it  is  to  know  Thee,  oh 
God,  but  how  sweet  to  love  Thee!" 

Ephraim  was  silent,  and  Pimenius  responded: 
"Amen!" 

The  mighty  silence  of  night  enwrapped  them, 
and  under  the  stars,  they  hastened  toward  the 
East  rejoicing  in  the  quiet  of  the  wilderness 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
JULIAN  IN  THE  PURPLE. 

Through  all  the  streets  of  the  city  of  Medio- 
lanum,  in  the  sunshine  of  the  morning,  streamed 
crowds  of  people,  all  going  to  the  great  square. 

There  arose  a  shout  of  greeting,  as  the  emperor 
appeared  in  a  triumphal  chariot  drawn  by  a  whole- 
herd  of  swan-white  horses. 

He  stood  at  such  a  height  that  people  below 
looked  up  at  him  with  bent  necks.  His  garments, 
powdered  with  precious  stones,  gleamed  with  a 
blinding  brightness.  In  his  right  hand  he  held  a 
scepter,  in  the  left,  an  image  of  the  world  crowned 
with  a  cross. 

Immovable  as  a  statue,  heavily  rouged  and  pow- 
dered, he  looked  straight  before  him  without  turn- 
ing his  head,  as  if  it  were  held  in  a  vise.  Through- 
out the  whole  length  of  the  way,  in  spite  of  the 
jarring  and  trembling  of  the  carriage,  the  emperor 
did  not  make  a  movement,  did  not  stir  a  finger; 
he  did  not  even  cough,  or  wink  his  wide-opened 
eyes.  This  petrified  immobility  Constantius  had 
acquired  by  many  years  of  effort;  he  was  proud  of 
it,  and  considered  it  an  indispensable  condition  of 
divine  majesty,  befitting  the  behavior  of  an  em- 
peror. At  such  moments,  he  would  sooner  have 
died  in  torture  than  show  his  mortal  nature,  by 
wiping  the  sweat  from  his  face,  or  sneezing. 

Crooked-legged,  of  small  stature,  he  seemed  to 
himself  a  giant.  When  the  chariot  passed  under 

163 


164  Julian  the  Apostate. 

the  Triumphal  arch,  not  far  from  the  boundary 
stone  of  Maximianus  Hercules,  the  emperor  bent 
his  head,  as  if  it  might  have  struck  the  gigantic 
gateway,  through  which  a  Cyclops  might  have 
passed  with  ease. 

The  palatines  stood  at  either  side  of  the  way. 
They  had  golden  shields  and  golden  breast-plates; 
the  two  lines  of  noble  guards  shone  in  the  sun  like 
two  lightning  flashes. 

Bound  the  emperor's  chariot  were  raised  wide 
standards  in  the  form  of  dragons:  the  purple  cloth, 
fluttering  in  the  wind  from  the  open  maws  of  the 
dragons,  gave  forth  a  piercing  sound,  like  the 
angry  hissing  of  snakes,  and  the  great  red  tails  of 
the  monsters  swayed  in  the  wind. 

On  the  square  were  assembled  all  the  legions 
stationed  in  Mediolanum. 

A  thunder  of  shouts  met  the  emperor.  Con- 
stantius  was  content.  The  very  sounds  of  this 
greeting,  neither  too  low  nor  too  loud,  were  settled 
beforehand  with  the  strictest  etiquette.  Soldiers 
and  citizens  were  taught  the  art  of  expressing  their 
joy  in  a  decorous  and  reverential  manner. 

Constantius  descended  from  the  chariot,  taking 
care  that  his  every  movement,  every  step  was  full 
of  pompous  and  pedantic  majesty,  and  walked  up 
the  tribunal,  which  was  erected  in  the  square,  and 
hung  from  summit  to  base  with  the  victorious  rags 
of  old  standards  and  bronze  eagles. 

The  sound  of  trumpets  broke  forth  again,  the 
military  signal  to  indicate  that  the  commander 
wished  to  speak  with  the  army,  and  silence  spread 
over  the  square. 

"Optimi  reipublicae  defensores!  Most  excellent 
defenders  of  the  State,"  began  Constantius. 


Julian  in  the  Purple.  165 

His  speech  was  watery,  and  full  of  scholastic 
flowers  of  rhetoric. 

Julian,  in  the  dress  of  a  courtier,  approached 
the  steps  of  the  tribunal,  and  the  fratricide  robed 
the  last  descendant  of  Constantius  Chloms  in  the 
sacred  purple  of  the  Ca?sars.  The  rays  of  the  sun 
pierced  the  light  silk,  when  the  emperor  raised  the 
purple  to  invest  the  kneeling  Julian,  and  a  blood- 
colored  stain  fell  on  the  face  of  the  new  Caesar, 
overspread  with  a  deathlike  paleness.  In  thought 
he  repeated  a  verse  of  the  Iliad,  which  seemed  to 
him  prophetic: 

"Purple  Death  overtook  him,  and  potent  Fate." 

And  meanwhile  Constantius  was  greeting  him: 

"While  yet  a  youth,  thou  receivest'the  splendid 
flower  of  thy  royal  birth,  best  beloved  of  all  my 
brothers!" 

Then  arose  a  cry  of  joy  through  all  the  legions. 
Constantius  was  slightly  displeased.  This  cry  sur- 
passed the  measure  set  by  etiquette.  Evidently 
Julian  pleased  the  soldiers. 

"Long  life  to  Caesar  Julian!"  they  cried,  ever 
louder  and  louder,  and  would  not  be  silenced. 

The  new  Ca?sar  replied  to  the  plaudits  of  the 
soldiers  with  a  kindly  smile. 

The  legionaries  struck  their  bronze  shields 
against  their  knee,  in  sign  of  gladness. 

It  seemed  to  Julian  that  not  the  emperor's  will 

but  the  will  of  the  gods  themselves  exalted  him. 
********* 

Constantius  had  the  habit  of  consecrating  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  every  evening  to  cleaning  and 
polishing  his  nails.  This  was  the  only  luxury  he 
allowed  himself.  He  was  unimaginative,  re- 


166  Julian  the  Apostate. 

strained,  and  coarse,  rather  than  refined,  in  his 
other  habits. 

Subbing  his  nails  with  a  fine  file,  smoothing 
them  with  a  little  brush,  he  merrily  asked  his 
favorite  eunuch,  Eusebius,  the  Dignitary  of  the 
Most  August  Bedchamber,  on  the  evening  of  the 
same  day: 

"What  do  you  think?  will  Julian  soon  conquer 
the  Gauls?"  ' 

"I  think,"  said  Eusebius,  "that  we  shall  soon 
hear  the  news  of  the  youth's  defeat  and  death!" 

"Is  that  so?  I  would  greatly  regret  it.  But  I 
have  done  what  I  could:  he  can  blame  himself 
alone." 

Constantius  smiled,  and  bending  his  head  on 
one  side,  he  looked  at  his  polished  nails: 

"You  conquered  Maxentius,"  whispered  the 
eunuch,  "you  conquered  Vetranion,  Constans,  and 
Gallus;  you  will  conquer  Julian  also.  Then  there 
will  be  one  flock  and  one  shepherd.  God  and 
thou!" 

"Yes,  yes,  but  besides  Julian,  there  is  Athana- 
sius.  I  cannot  find  peace,  until  alive  or  dead,  he 
is  in  my  hands." 

"Julian  is  more  to  be  feared  than  Athanasius, 
and  you  invested  him  to-day  with  the  purple  of 
death.  Oh  wisdom  of  divine  Providence!  How 
by  invisible  ways  it  removes  all  the  enemies  of  thy 
Eternity!  Glory  be  to  the  Father,  and  to  the  Son, 
and  to  the  Holy  Ghost,  now  and  forever,  world 
without  end." 

"Amen!"  concluded  the  emperor,  finishing  his 
nails,  and  throwing  down  the  last  brush. 

He  approached  the  ancient  standard  of  Con- 
•stantine,  the  Labarum,  which  always  stood  in  his 


Arsinoe  and  the  Christians.  167 

bed-chamber,  fell  on  his  knees,  and  looking  at  the 
monogram  of  the  Christ  shining  in  the  rays  of 
a  perpetually  burning  lamp,  began  to  pray. 

With  pedantic  exactitude,  he  repeated  the  set 
prayers,  made  the  fixed  number  of  obeisances  and 
signs  of  the  cross.  He  turned  to  God  with  unques- 
tioning faith,  as  people  who  never  doubt  their 
benefactor. 

When  the  three  quarter  hour  set  apart  for  the 
evening  prayer  were  over,  Constantius  rose  with 
a  light  heart. 

The  eunuchs  undressed  him.  He  lay  down  in 
his  splendid  couch  supported  by  the  outstretched 
wings  of  silver  Cherubim. 

The  emperor  went  to  sleep  with  a  smile  on  his 
lips,  like  an  innocent  child. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 
ARSINOE  AND  THE  CHRISTIANS. 

In  one  of  the  many  porticoes  of  Athens, 
Arsinoe's  statue:  "Octavius,  the  Victor,  with  the 
head  of  Brutus,'7  was  exhibited  to  the  people.  The 
Athenians  greeted  the  senator's  daughter  as  a 
restorer  of  the  art  of  the  best  periods. 

Special  civil  servants,  whose  duty  it  was  secretly 
to  watch  the  political  dispositions  of  people's 
minds  throughout  the  empire,  and  who  bore  the 
strange  name  of  "the  Curious,"  reported  in  the 
proper  quarter  that  the  statue  might  awaken  a 
desire  of  liberty  in  the  minds  of  the  people. 

In  the  dead  head  of  Brutus,  they  found  a  like- 


168  Julian  the  Apostate. 

ness  to  Julian,  and  saw  in  this  a  criminal  allusion 
to  the  death  of  Gallus.  In  Octavius  they  tried  to 
find  a  likeness  to  Constantius. 

The  matter  grew  into  an  investigation  for  high 
treason,  and  came  near  falling  into  the  hands  of 
Paulus  Catena.  Happily,  the  court  sent  a  per- 
emptory order  not  only  to  remove  the  ill-omened 
statue  from  the  portico,  but  even  to  destroy  it  in 
the  presence  of  the  servants  of  the  emperor. 

Arsinoe  wished  to  hide  it.  Hortensius  was  in 
such  terror  that  he  threatened  to  give  up  his  ward 
to  the  spies  with  his  own  hands. 

Arsinoe  was  overcome  with  contempt  for  the 
human  race.  She  let  her  works  suffer.  Stone- 
masons broke  the  statue  in  pieces. 

Arsinoe  quickly  left  Athens.  Her  guardian  per- 
suaded her  to  accompany  him  to  Borne,  where  his 
friends  had  long  promised  him  a  lucrative  post  at 
the  court  of  the  emperor,  the  post  of  imperial 
quasstor. 

He  settled  not  far  from  the  Palatine  Hill.  The 
days  passed  in  idleness.  The  artist  understood 
that  the  great  free  art  of  old  could  exist  no  longer. 

Arsinoe  remembered  her  conversation  with 
Julian  in  Athens.  It  was  the  one  thing  that 
bound  her  to  life-.  TQ  wait  in  inactivity  seemed 
impossible  to  her.  fat  moments  of  despair  she 
wished  to  end  the  matter  at  once,  to  set  forth 
straightway  for  Gaul,  to  the  young  Caesar,  and 
with  him  to  gain  power  or  perish. 

But  at  that  time  she  fell  grievously  ill.  During 
the  long  quiet  days  of  her  convalescence,  she  was 
calmed  and  soothed  by  Anatolius,  the  truest  and 
most  faithful  of  her  adorers.  He  was  the  cen- 


Arsinoe  and  the  Christians.  169 

turion  of  the  court  shield-bearers,  and  the  son  of  a 
rich  merchant  of  Rhodes. 

He  was  a  Eoman  centurion,  as  he  himself  ex- 
pressed it,  only  "through  a  misunderstanding." 
He  entered  military  service,  in  obedience  to  a  vain 
wish  of  his  father's,  who  counted  it  the  height  of 
happiness  to  see  his  son  in  the  golden  accoutre- 
ments of  a  court  shield-bearer.  Escaping  disci- 
pline by  heavy  bribes,  Anatolius  passed  his  life  in 
elegant  idleness,  amongst  rare  products  of  art  and 
books,  in  festivals,  in  leisurely  and  luxurious  jour- 
neys. He  had  not  that  deep  serenity  of  soul  which 
belonged  to  the  Epicureans  of  old.  He  complained 
to  his  friends: 

"I  am  sick  of  a  mortal  illness." 

"What  is  it?"  they  asked  him,  with  a  smile  of 
disbelief. 

"What  you  call  my  wit;  but  what  seems  to  me 
at  times  my  sad  and  strange  witlessness." 

In  his  soft  effeminate  features  were  expressed 
weariness  and  lack  of  energy. 

Sometimes  he  seemed  to  waken  up:  now,  during 
a  storm,  he  took  a  uselessly  dangerous  cruise  in 
the  open  sea  with  the  fishermen;  now  he  went 
away  to  the  impenetrable  forests  of  Calabria  to 
hunt  wild  boar  and  bears,  or  meditated  taking  a 
part  in  a  plot  on  the  emperor's  life,  or  accomplish- 
ing prodigies  of  valor  in  the  field,  or  sought  ini- 
tiation in  the  strange  rites  of  Mithra  or  Adonai. 
At  such  moments,  he  astonished  even  people  who 
did  not  know  his  ordinary  life,  by  his  untiring 
strength  and  daring. 

But  his  excitement  soon  passed,  and  he  sank 
back  into  idleness  even  more  indolent  and  dreamy 
than  before,  even  more  melancholy  and  sarcastic. 


170  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"One  can  do  nothing,  with  you,  Anatolius,'' 
Arsinoe  said  to  him  reproachfully,  "you  are  so 
soft,  as  if  you  had  no  bones." 

But  she  felt  a  Hellenic  grace  in  the  character  of 
this  last  of  the  Epicureans.  She  loved  the  melan- 
choly mockery  in  his  sad  eyes  at  everything  in  life 
and  at  himself,  when  he  said: 

"The  sage  can  find  a  drop  of  sweetness  even  in 
his  saddest  thoughts;  so  the  Hymettan  bees  suck 
the  sweetest  honey  from  bitter  herbs." 

His  quiet  talks  soothed  and  lulled  her.  She 
jestingly  called  him  her  healer. 

Arsinoe  grew  well  again,  but  did  not  return  to 
her  work-room.  The  very  sight  of  the  marble 
splinters  called  forth  a  feeling  of  oppression  in 
her. 

At  this  time,  Hortensius,  in  honor  of  his  stay 
in  Eome,  was  arranging  a  series  of  games  for  the 
people  in  the  Flavian  amphitheater.  They  were 
to  be  of  unheard-of  magnificence.  He  was  con- 
stantly hurrying  hither  and  thither,  receiving 
animals  daily  from  the  four  corners  of  the  earth, — 
dogs  from  Scotland,  crocodiles,  fearless  hunters, 
skilled  drivers,  comedians,  choice  gladiators. 

The  days  of  preparation  grew  to  a  close,  and  the 
lions  were  not  yet  brought  from  Tarentum,  where 
they  had  been  landed.  The  bears  arrived  thin, 
starving,  and  tame  as  sheep.  Hortensius  could  not 
sleep  at  night  for  anxiety. 

Two  days  before  the  festival,  the  Saxon  cap- 
tives, the  gladiators,  proud  and  fearless  men,  for 
whom  he  had  paid  an  immense  sum,  strangled 
each  other  in  the  prison  by  night,  to  the  great  dis- 
gust of  the  senator;  they  considered  it  a  disgrace 
to  serve  as  a  gazing-stock  for  the  Roman  multi- 


Arsinoc  and  the  Christians.  171 

tude.  Hortensius  almost  swooned  away,  when  he 
heard  this  unexpected  news. 

Now  all  his  hopes  were  centered  on  the  croco- 
diles. These  animals  aroused  the  curiosity  of  the 
Roman  populace. 

"Have  you  tried  feeding  them  with  the  fresh 
flesh  of  a  sucking  pig?"  the  senator  asked  a  slave, 
who  was  appointed  to  the  care  of  the  precious 
crocodiles. 

"I  gave  it  to  them,  but  they  would  not  eat  it." 

"And  raw  veal?" 

"They  won't  eat  veal,  either." 

"And  wheaten  bread,  soaked  in  cream?" 

"They  won't  even  smell  at  it.  They  turn  their 
snouts  away,  and  sleep.  They  must  be  sick,  or 
very  tired.  We  even  opened  their  mouths  with 
stakes,  and  pushed  the  food  in.  They  spat  it  out 
again." 

"Oh,  I  swear  by  Jupiter,  these  cursed  beasts  will 
kill  themselves  and  me.  Send  them  into  the  arena 
on  the  first  day,  or  they  will  go  and  die  of  starva- 
tion!" groaned  poor  Hortensius,  falling  back  into 
an  armchair, 

Arsinoe  looked  at  him  with  a  certain  envy.  He, 
at  any  rate,  was  free  from  lassitude. 

She  went  to  a  room,  whose  windows  opened  out 
on  the  garden.  Here,  in  the  quiet  moonlight  her 
younger  sister  Myra,  a  slender,  graceful  girl,  was 
touching  the  strings  of  a  lyre.  In  the  stillness  of 
the  moonlight  night,  the  sounds  fell  like  tears. 
Arsinoe  silently  embraced  Myra,  who  answered  her 
with  a  smile,  without  ceasing  to  play. 

A  whistle  was  heard  across  the  garden  wall. 

"It  is  he!"  said  Myra,  rising  and  listening,  "let 
us  go  quick." 


172  Julian  the  Apostate. 

She  clasped  Arsinoe's  hand  tightly  with  her 
small,  strong  hand. 

The  girls  threw  dark  cloaks  over  them,  and  went 
out.  The  wind  was  chasing  the  clouds;  the  moon 
now  looked  forth,  now  hid  herself  behind  them. 

Arsinoe  opened  the  small  wicket  in  the  garden 
fence. 

A  youth  met  them,  wrapped  in  a  black  monkish 
robe. 

"We  are  not  late,  Juventinus?"  asked  Myra.  "I 
was  so  afraid  you  would  not  come." 

They  walked  long,  first  by  a  narrow  and  dark 
by-street,  afterward  through  a  vineyard,  and  en- 
tered a  melancholy  unfruitful  field,  the  beginning 
of  the  Roman  Campania.  The  dry  grass  rustled. 
On  the  bright  moonlit  horizon  appeared  the  open- 
ings between  the  arches  of  an  aqueduct  of  the 
times  of  Servius  Tullius. 

Juventinus  looked  round  and  said: 

"Someone  is  following  us." 

The  two  girls  also  looked  round;  the  moonlight 
fell  on  their  faces,  and  the  man  who  was  following 
them  cried  out  joyfully: 

"Arsinoe,  Myra,  at  last  I  have  found  you!  where 
are  you  hurrying  to?" 

"To  the  Christians,"  answered  Arsinoe,  "come 
with  us,  Anatolius.  You  will  see  many  strange 
things." 

"To  the  Christians?  What  do  I  hear?  I  thought 
you  were  always  such  an  enemy!"  wondered  the 
centurion. 

"With  years,  my  friend,  you  grow  kinder  and 
more  indifferent  to  everything,"  answered  the  girl, 
with  a  sad  smile.  "This  superstition  is  no  worse 
nor  better  than  any  other.  And  besides  what  will 


Arsinoe  and  the  Christians.  1Y3 

you  not  do,  for  weariness?  I  go  to  them  for 
Myra's  sake.  It  pleases  her/' 

"Where  is  the  church?  We  seem  to  be  in  the 
open  plain,"  asked  Anatolius. 

"The  churches  are  denied  or  destroyed  by  their 
own  Arian  brothers,  who  believe  in  the  Christ  in 
a  different  way  from  them.  At  court  you  must 
have  heard  of  unity  of  substance  and  likeness  of 
substance.  Now  the  opponents  of  the  Arians  pray 
secretly  in  the  catacombs,  as  in  the  days  of  the 
first  persecutions," 

Myra  and  Juventinus  fell  a  little  behind,  so  that 
Arsinoe  and  Anatolius  could  speak  as  if  they  were 
alone. 

"Who  is  that?"  asked  the  centurion,  indicating 
Juventinus. 

"A  descendant  of  the  old  patrician  race  of  the 
Furii,"  answered"  Arsinoe.  "His  mother  wants  to 
make  him  a  consul,  and  he  meditates  going  away 
against  her  will,  to  pray  to  God  in  the  desert.  He 
loves  his  mother,  and  hides  from  her,  as  from  an 
enemy." 

"The  descendants  of  the  Furii, — monks?  a 
degenerate  age,"  sighed  the  Epicurean. 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  arenarium, 
the  old  quarry  of  tufa,  and  descended  by  narrow 
steps  to  the  very  bottom  of  the  excavation.  The 
moon  lighted  up  the  blocks  of  reddish  volcanic 
earth.  Juventinus  took  a  little  clay  lamp  from  a 
dark  niche  in  the  wall,  struck  a  flame,  and  lit  it. 
A  long  sharp  flame  flared  up  in  the  throat  of  the 
lamp,  where  the  wick  was  floating.  They  plunged 
deeper  into  one  of  the  side  entrances  of  the  arena- 
rium. Cut  by  the  ancient  Romans,  very  wide  and 
roomy,  it  descended  into  the  depths  by  a  steep 


174  Julian  the  Apostate. 

incline.  They  passed  other  side  passages,  which 
had  served  the  workmen  for  carrying  the  tufa. 

Juventinus  led  his  companions  through  a  reg- 
ular labyrinth.  At  last  they  came  to  a  stop  before 
a  well,  and  he  removed  its  wooden  cover.  A  damp 
wind  came  up  from  it.  They  descended  the  steep 
steps  carefully. 

At  the  very  bottom  was  a  small  door.  Juven- 
tinus knocked. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  monk  doorkeeper  ad- 
mitted them  into  a  narrow  and  high  corridor,  cut 
in  the  granular  tufa,  porous  enough  to  make  the 
cutting  of  galleries  easy. 

Both  walls  were  covered  from  the  floor  to  the 
ceiling  ^vith  marble  tablets,  or  flat  thin  tiles,  be- 
hind which  were  innumerable  "loculi,"  the  tombs 
of  buried  Christians. 

They  met  many  people  with  lamps.  In  their 
flickering  light,  Anatolius,  stopping  for  a  moment, 
curiously  read  the  inscription  cut  on  one  of  the 
slabs:  "Dorotheus,  son  of  Felix,  rests  in  this  cool 
abode,  this  bright  and  peaceful  abode."  On 
another  slab:  "Brothers!  disturb  not  my  sweet 
slumbers!" 

The  tone  of  these  inscriptions  was  tender  and 
joyful.  "Sophronia,"  said  one,  "dearest,  thou 
livest  for  ever  in  God!"  And  a  little  further: 
"Sophronia,  thou  livest!" — as  if  the  writer  had 
understood  once  for  all  that  there  is  no  death. 

Nowhere  in  the  inscriptions  was  it  said:  "he 
is  buried,"  but  only  "he  is  laid  here,  for  a  time" 
("depositus").  It  seemed  that  millions  of  people, 
generation  after  generation,  lay  there,  not  dead 
but  fallen  into  a  gentle  sleep,  filled  with  secret 
expectation. 


Arsiuoe  and  the  Christians.  175 

Lamps  stood  in  niches,  burning  with  a  long 
steady  flame  in  the  unmoving  air,  and  beautiful 
anaphoras  with  perfumes  stood  beside  them.  Only 
the  smell  of  the  rotting  bones  in  the  recesses  of 
the  graves  recalled  death. 

The  corridors  ran  at  several  levels,  descending 
deeper  and  deeper.  Here  and  there  were  seen  the 
wide  openings  of  the  air-shafts,  leading  to  the 
Campania. 

Sometimes  a  faint  ray  of  moonlight,  slipping 
down  one  of  the  air-shafts,  lit  up  a  marble  tablet 
with  an  inscription. 

At  the  end  of  one  corridor  they  saw  a  grave- 
digger  at  work:  with  a  gay  face,  and  singing,  he 
struck  his  iron  chisel  into  the  granular  tufa,  which 
curved  up  like  a  vault  above  his  head. 

Beside  the  chief  superintendent  of  the  grave- 
diggers,  the  "fossor,"  a  richly-dressed  man,  with 
a  shrewd  fat  face,  stood  several  Christians.  The 
fossor  had  inherited  a  whole  row  of  catacombs,  and 
had  the  right  to  rent  "loculi,"  that  is,  places  for 
burial,  in  the  division  belonging  to  him.  The 
division  was  very  profitable,  because  the  relics  of 
Saint  Lawrence  were  buried  here.  The  grave- 
digger  had  a  very  prosperous  time  of  it.  He  was 
now  bargaining  with  a  rich  and  niggardly  leather- 
seller,  Simon.  Arsinoe  stopped  for  a  moment,  to 
listen  to  their  conversation: 

"And  will  my  coffin  be  far  from  the  relics?" 
asked  Simon,  suspiciously,  thinking  of  the  enor- 
mous sum  which  the  fossor  demanded. 

"Not  far:  six  cubits/' 

"Above  them,  or  below  them?"  the  purchaser 
could  not  refrain  from  asking. 

"To  the  right,  to  the  right,  obliquely.    I  tell  you 


176  Julian  the  Apostate. 

the  place  is  a  fine  one.  I  am  not  taking  too  much. 
No  matter  how  much  you  sin,  it  will  all  slide  oft' 
you.  You  will  go  straight  into  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  along  with  the  saints." 

And  the  fossor  deftly  began  to  take  his  measure 
for  the  tomb,  as  a  tailor  takes  it  for  a  garment. 
The  leather-seller  entreated  him  to  make  the  tomb 
as  wide  as  he  could,  so  as  not  to  crowd  him,  when 
he  lay  in  it. 

At  that  moment,  a  poorly-dressed  old  woman 
came  up  to  the  grave-digger. 

"What  do  you  want,  grandmother?" 

"I  brought  the  extra  money." 

"What  extra  money?" 

"For  a  straight  tomb." 

"I  remember.  You  don't  want  to  go  into  a 
crooked  one?" 

"No,  good  sir,  my  old  bones  would  ache." 

In  the  catacombs,  especially  near  the  relics  of 
the  saints,  every  free  corner  was  so  sought  after 
that  it  was  necessary  to  make  the  tombs  slightly 
crooked,  where  the  direction  of  the  walls  did  not 
permit  of  a  different  construction.  Only  poor 
people  consented  to  buy  the  crooked  tombs. 

"God  knows,  I  thought  to  myself,  how  long  I 
shall  have  to  lie  before  the  Resurrection,"  ex- 
plained the  old  woman;  "and  if  you  get  into  a 
crooked  one,  it  won't  matter  at  first,  but  when 
you  have  lain  a  while  and  get  tired,  it  would  be 
bad." 

Anatolius  listened  in  delight: . 

"It  is  far  more  curious  than  the  mysteries  of 
Mithra,"  he  assured  Arsinoe,  with  a  light  smile. 
"I  am  sorry  I  did  not  know  of  it  before.  I  never 
saw  a  gayer  cemetery." 


Arsinoe  and  the  Christians.  177 

They  entered  a  chamber  of  considerable  size, 
the  so-called  cubiculum.  Here  numberless  lamps 
were  burning;  the  presbyter  was  performing  the 
service:  the  upper  slab  of  a  martyr's  tomb  served 
him  as  an  altar;  it  stood  under  a  bow-shaped  vault, 
called  the  "arcosolium." 

There  were  many  worshippers  in  long  white 
dresses.  All  their  faces  seemed  happy. 

Myra  knelt  down.  She  looked  with  tears  of 
childlike  love  at  the  image  of  the  Good  Shepherd 
on  the  wall  of  the  chamber. 

Here,  in  the  catacombs,  a  custom,  which  began 
long  ago,  in  the  days  of  the  early  Christians,  was 
renewed:  at  the  end  of  the  service,  the  brothers 
and  sisters  greeted  each  other  "with  a  holy  kiss." 
Arsinoe,  following  the  general  example,  kissed 
Anatolius  with  a  smile. 

Then  all  four  of  them  went  from  the  lower  to 
the  higher  levels,  whence  was  an  outlet  to  Juven- 
tinus'  secret  hiding-place, — a  deserted  heathen 
burying  place,  a  "columbarium"  beside  the  Appian 
Way. 

While  waiting  for  the  ship  which  was  to  take 
him  away  from  Egypt,  he  hid  here  from  his 
mother,  who  had  laid  information  with  the  offi- 
cials of  the  prefect.  The  youth  lived  with  Didy- 
mus,  a  pious  old  man,  from  the  lower  Thebaid. 
Juventinus  obeyed  all  his  commands  reverently. 

Didymus,  seated  on  his  haunches  in  the  colum- 
barium, was  weaving  baskets  of  osiers.  The  light 
of  the  moon,  falling  through  the  narrow  air-shaft, 
illumined  his  grey,  curly  locks  and  long  beard. 

From  roof  to  ceiling  there  were  rows  of  holes  in 
the  wall  of  the  chamber,  like  the  nests  in  a  dove- 


178  Julian  the  Apostate. 

cote.    In  each  of  these  nests  stood  an  urn  with  the 
ashes  of  one  of  the  departed. 

Myra,  whom  the  old  man  loved  dearly,  devoutly 
kissed  his  wrinkled  hand,  and  asked  him  to  tell 
them  about  the  hermit-fathers. 

She  liked  nothing  better  than  the  fearful  and 
wonderful  tales  that  Didymus  told  her. 

With  the  gentle  smile  of  age,  he  softly  stroked 
Myra's  hair. 

All  took  places  round  the  old  man. 

He  related  legends  of  the  great  hermits  of  the 
Thebaid,  Mtria,  and  Mesopotamia. 

Myra  watched  him  with  burning  eyes,  pressing 
her  thin  fingers  against  her  heaving  breast.  The 
blind  man's  smile  was  mysterious  and  full  of  pro- 
found kindness,  and  the  soft  silky  grey  locks  sur- 
rounded his  head  like  a  halo. 

All  kept  silent.  The  unceasing  murmur  of  dis- 
tant Rome  was  heard  in  the  stillness. 

Suddenly  at  the  inner  door  of  the  columbarium 
leading  to  the  catacombs,  a  gentle  knock  was 
heard. 

Juventinus  rose,  went  to  the  door,  and  asked 
before  opening:  "who  is  there?" 

He  received  no  answer.  The  knock  was  re- 
peated even  more  gently,  as  if  entreatingly. 

He  opened  the  door  cautiously,  shuddered,  and 
stepped  back.  A  tall  woman  entered  the  colum- 
barium. 

A  long  white  robe  wrapped  her  from  head  to 
foot  and  covered  her  face.     She  moved  as  if  she 
was  old  or  very  ill.    All  gazed  silently  at  the  new- 
comer. 
With  a  single  movement  of  her  hand,  the  woman 


Arsinoe  and  the  Christians.  179 

threw  aside  the  long  folds  which  hid  her  face,  and 
Juventinus  cried  out: 

"Mother!" 

Didymus  rose  to  his  full  height.  His  face  was 
stern. 

The  woman  fell  at  her  son's  feet,  and  embraced 
them. 

The  tresses  of  her  grey  hair,  breaking  loose,  fell 
on  her  thin,  pale  face,  which  still  retained  the 
traces  of  the  proud  race  of  ancient  Rome. 

Juventinus  embraced  his  mother's  head,  and 
kissed  her. 

"Juventinus!"  called  the  old  man. 

The  youth  did  not  answer. 

His  mother  spoke  to  him  in  a  quick  joyful 
whisper,  as  if  they  were  alone: 

"I  thought  I  would  never  see  you  again,  my 
son!  I  was  going  to  journey  to  Alexandria  to  find 
you.  Oh,  I  would  not  have  found  you  there,  in 
the  desert.  But  now  all  is  over,  is  it  not?  Tell 
me  that  you  will  not  go  away.  Wait  till  I  die. 
Afterward,  whatever  you  wish." 

The  old  man  spoke: 

"Juventinus,  do  you  hear  me?" 

"Old  man,"  said  the  Roman  lady,  glancing  up 
at  the  blind  man,  "you  will  not  rob  a  mother  of 
her  son?  Listen,  if  need  be,  I  will  renounce  the 
faith  of  my  fathers, — I  will  believe  in  the  Cruci- 
fied One.  I  will  become  a  nun." 

Heathen  woman,  you  do  not  understand  the  law 
of  Christ!  A  mother  cannot  be  a  nun;  a  nun  can- 
not be  a  mother." 

"I  bore  him  in  travail:  he  is  mine!" 

"You  love  not  his  soul,  but  his  body." 


180  Julian  tlio  Apostate. 

The  patrician  woman  cast  a  glance  full  of  end- 
less detestation  at  Didymus: 

"Be  accursed  with  your  cunning,  lying 
speeches,"  she  exclaimed,  "be  accursed,  you  who 
take  children  from  their  mothers,  who  delude  the 
innocent,  you  in  black  garments  who  fear  the 
light  of  Heaven;  servants  of  the  Crucified,  who 
hate  life  and  destroy  all  that  is  great  and  joyful 
in  the  world!" 

Her  face  was  distorted.  She  pressed  her  trem- 
bling body  still  closer  to  her  son's  feet,  and  said, 
breathing  hard: 

''My  child,  I  know  you  will  not  go  away.  You 
cannot." 

The  old  man  Didymus  stood  with  a  crosier  in 
his  hand,  at  an  inner  door  of  the  columbarium, 
which  led  into  the  catacombs.  Majestically  he 
pronounced  these  words: 

"Now,  for  the  last  time,  in  the  name  of  the  liv- 
ing God,  I  order  you  my  son  to  leave  her  and  come 
with  me." 

Then  the  Roman  matron  herself  let  Juventinus 
go,  and  whispered  almost  inaudibly: 

"'Very  well.    Leave  me  if  you  can." 

The  tears  ceased  to  stream  from  her  eyes:  her 
hands  fell  helplessly  on  her  knees. 

She  waited.    All  remained  silent. 

"Help  me,  oh  Lord,"  prayed  Juventinus,  in 
mortal  agony. 

"If  any  man  come  to  me,  and  hate  not  his 
father,  and  mother,  and  wife,  and  children,  and 
brethren,  and  sisters,  yea,  and  his  own  life  also, 
he  cannot  be  my  disciple," — pronounced  Didymus, 
and  feeling  his  way  to  the  door,  he  turned  for  the 
last  time  to  Juventinus: 


Arsiiiue  and  the  Christians.  181 

"Kemain  in  the  world.  You  have  renounced 
the  Christ.  Be  accursed  in  this  world,  and  in  the 
world  to  come!" 

"No,  no,  do  not  cast  me  away,  father!  I  will 
follow  you.  Lord,  I  follow  you!"  cried  Juven- 
tinus,  and  walked  after  his  teacher. 

She  made  no  movement  to  stop  him;  not  a  fea- 
ture moved. 

But  when  his  steps  died  away,  a  cry  burst  forth 
from  her  breast.  She  fell  on  the  ground  like  one 
dead. 

"Open,  in  the  name  of  the  August  Emperor 
Constantius,  open!" 

It  was  the  soldiers  who  were  sent  by  the  Roman 
prefect  on  the  information  of  Juventinus'  mother 
to  seek  the  "insubordinate  Sabellians,"  the  adher- 
ents of  consubstantiality,  the  emperor's  foes  hiding 
in  the  ancient  catacombs. 

The  soldiers  bent  an  iron  ram  against  the  door 
of  the  columbarium.  The  fabric  shook.  The 
glass  and  silver  urns  with  the  dust  of  the  dead  rang 
pitifully.  The  soldiers  tore  down  half  the  door. 

Anatolius,  Myra,  and  Arsinoe  threw  themselves 
into  the  inner  galleries  of  the  catacombs.  The 
Christians  ran  through  the  narrow  subterranean 
corridors  like  ants  in  an  upset  ant-hill,  straggling 
toward  the  secret  outlets  and  stairs  which  com- 
municated with  the  quarries.  But  Arsinoe  and 
Myra  did  not  know  the  exact  disposition  of  the 
galleries.  They  lost  their  way  in  the  labyrinth, 
and  reached  the  lowest  level,  fifty  cubits  beneath 
the  earth.  It  was  hard  to  breath  there,  and 
marshy  water  splashed  beneath  their  feet.  The 
lamp  went  out  for  lack  of  air.  Ill  odors  polluted 


182  Julian  the  Apostate. 

the  atmosphere.  Myra's  head  grew  dizzy,  and  she 
lost  consciousness. 

Anatolius  took  her  in  his  arms.  Every  moment 
they  were  in  danger  of  meeting  the  soldiers.  The 
outlets  might  fall  in,  and  they  would  be  buried 
alive. 

Finally  Juventinus  called  to  them: 

"This  way,  this  way!" 

Bending  over,  he  was  carrying  old  Didymus  on 
his  shoulders. 

After  a  few  minutes,  they  gained  a  secret  en- 
trance to  the  quarries,  and  thence  to  the  Cam- 
pania. 4 

Beaching  home,  Arsinoe  hastily  undressed  Myra 
and  put  her  to  bed,  still  unconscious.  In  the  first 
flush  of  the  dawn,  the  elder  sister,  kneeling  beside 
her,  kissed  the  girl's  thin  hands,  yellow  as  wax. 
A  heavy  presentiment  oppressed  her  heart. 

There  was  a  strange  expression  on  the  sleeping 
girl's  face;  it  had  never  before  breathed  such  stain- 
less purity.  Her  whole  body  seemed  childish, 
transparent  and  frail,  like  the  transparently  thin 
sides  of  an  alabaster  vase,  illumined  by  an  inner 
light.  This  light  was  to  go  out,  but  only  with 
Myra's  life. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
JULIAN  IN  BATTLE. 

Late  in  the  evening,  in  a  gloomy,  marshy  forest 
not  far  from  the  Rhine,  between  the  military  fort- 
ress "Tres  Tabernse"  and  the  Roman  city  of  AT- 


Julian  in  Battle.  183 

gentoratum,  recently  conquered  by  the  Alamans, 
were  wandering  two  soldiers  who  had  lost  their 
way.  One  was  an  awkward  giant,  with  fiery  red 
hair  and  a  face  of  childlike  simplicity,  a  Sarmatian 
in  the  service  of  Home.  His  name  was  Aragarius. 
The  other  was  Strombicus,  a  lean,  wrinkled,  sun- 
burnt Syrian. 

Amongst  the  tree-stems,  covered  with  moss  and 
mushroom-growths,  the  darkness  was  gathering. 
A  silent  rain  fell  through  the  warm  air.  There 
was  a  smell  of  the  fresh  leaves  of  the  birch,  and 
wet  pine-needles.  A  cuckoo  was  calling  somewhere 
in  the  distance.  At  every  rustle  or  cracking  of  a 
dry  branch,  Strombicus  shuddered  in  terror  and 
seized  his  companion  by  the  hand. 

"Uncle,  oh  uncle!" 

He  called  Aragarius  uncle,  not  from  kinship, 
but  from  friendship.  They  had  been  taken  into 
the  Roman  army  from  opposite  corners  of  the 
world.  The  voracious  but  chaste  barbarian  of  the 
north  despised  the  cowardly  Syrian,  with  his  sen- 
suality and  fine  taste  in  food  and  drink.  But  while 
mocking  at  him,  he  pitied  him  like  a  child. 

"Uncle!"  sobbed  Strombicus,  still  more  plain- 
tively. 

"What  are  you  howling  about?    Stop!" 

"Are  there  bears  in  this  wood?  what  do  you  i 
think,  uncle?" 

"There  are,"  answered  Aragarius  grimly. 

"And  what  if  we  come  across  one?    Eli?" 

"We'll  kill  it,  take  the  skin,  sell  it,  and  drink 
the  price." 

"But  what  if  we  don't  kill  it,  but  it  kills  us?" 

"What  a  little  coward!  you  can  see  at  once  that 
he  is  a  Christian." 


184  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"Why  must  a  Christian  be  a  coward?"  said 
Strombicus,  offended. 

"Why  you  told  me  yourself  that  it  is  said  in 
your  books:  if  any  one  strikes  you  on  the  left 
cheek,  turn  the  right  cheek  also." 

"That  is  true." 

"There,  you  see.  And  if  that  is  so,  then  I  think 
you  ought  not  to  fight  either.  Your  enemy  strikes 
you  on  one  cheek:  you  turn  the  other  to  him. 
You  are  all  cowards:  that  is  what  it  is." 

"Ca3sar  Julian  is  a  Christian,  and  he  is  no  cow- 
ard," Strombicus  defended  himself. 

"I  know,  nephew,"  continued  Aragarius,  "that 
you  can  forgive  your  enemies,  when  it  is  a  question 
of  fighting.  Eh,  you  draggled  chickens !  your  whole 
belly  is  not  bigger  than  my  fist.  You  eat  an  onion 
and  you  are  happy  for  a  whole  day.  And  that  is 
why  your  blood  is  like  ditch  water." 

"Oh,  uncle,  uncle,"  said  Strombicus,  reproach- 
fully, "why  do  you  remind  me  of  eating?  I  feel 
the  cramps  coming  on  again.  Dear,  give  me  a 
head  of  garlic!  t  know  you  have  one  left  in  your 
knapsack." 

"If  I  give  you  the  last,  to-morrow  we'll  both  die 
of  starvation  in  this  forest." 

"Oh,  I  feel  sick;  I  feel  faint!  If  you  don't  give 
it  to  me  at  once,  I'll  get  weak  and  fall  down,  and 
you  will  have  to  carry  me  on  your  shoulders." 

"Take  it  and  gnaw  it,  you  dogF 

"And  bread,  bread!"  begged  Strombicus. 

Aragarius  gave  his  friend  the  last  piece  of  bread, 
with  a  curse.  The  evening  before,  he  had  eaten 
enough  lard  and  bean  porridge  to  last  him  for  two 
-days  at  least. 

"Hush!"  he  said,  stopping..    "A  trumpet!    We 


Julian  in  Battle.  185 

are  not  far  from  the  camp.  We  must  keep  to  the 
north.  I  am  not  afraid  of  bears/'  continued  Ara- 
garius  thoughtfully,  after  a  moment's  silence,  "but 
of  the  centurion." 

This  detested  centurion  was  called  by  the  sol- 
diers "Cede-Alteram,"  ("Give  me  another")  be- 
cause every  time  he  had  to  punish  a  culprit  among 
the  soldiers,  and  the  rod  broke,  he  cried  out  joy- 
fully: "Cede-Alteram!"  The  two  words  became  a 
nickname. 

"I  am  sure,"  said  the  barbarian,  "that  Cede- 
Alteram  will  do  to  my  skin  what  the  tanner  does 
to  the  hides.  It's  a  bad  business,  nephew,  a  bad 
business!" 

They  had  fallen  behind  the  army,  because  Ara- 
garius  according  to  his  habit  had  drunk  himself 
senseless  when  they  took  a  village,  and  Strombi- 
cus  was  worn  out.  The  little  Syrian  had  made  an 
unsuccessful  attempt  to  obtain  forcible  possession 
of  a  fair  Frankish  girl.  The  sixteen-year-old 
beauty,  daughter  of  a  slain  barbarian,  had  given 
him  two  boxes  on  the  ears  so  vigorous,  that  he  had 
fallen  head  over  heels.  And  then  she  kicked  him 
with  her  white,  firm  feet.  "It  was  not  a  girl,  but  a 
devil,"  related  Strombicus,  "I  only  pinched  her, 
and  she  nearly  broke  all  my  ribs." 

The  sound  of  the  trumpet  grew  clearer. 

Aragarius,  sniffing  at  the  air,  like  a  blood-hound, 
noticed  that  it  smelt  of  smoke.  The  camp  fires 
could  not  be  far  off. 

It  grew  so  dark  that  they  could  hardly  make  out 
the  road.  The  path  disappeared  in  the  marsh. 
They  jumped  from  tussock  to  tussock.  Suddenly, 
from  a  huge  silver-fir  whose  boughs  were  hung 
with  moss  like  the  locks  of  an  old  man's  beard, 


186  Julian  the  Apostate. 

something  burst  forth  with  cries  and  noise.  Strom 
bicus  sat  down  from  fright.    It  was  a  black-cock. 
They  lost  themselves  completely. 
Strombicus  climbed  up  a  tree. 
"Campfires  to  the  north.    Not  far  off.    There  is 
a  big  river  there." 

"The  Rhine,  the  Rhine!"  exclaimed  Aragarius. 
"Come  quick!" 

They  began  to  make  their  way  through  secular 
birches  and  aspens. 

"Uncle,  I  am  drowning!"  sobbed  Strombicus, 
"somebody  is  pulling  me  by  the  foot.  Where  are 
you?" 

With  great  difficulty  Aragarius  pulled  him 
forth,  scolded  him,  and  set  him  on  his  shoulder. 
The  Sarmatian's  feet  knocked  against  the  old  rot- 
ting remains  of  a  wattle  breast-work  built  by  the 
.Romans. 

The  wattle-work  guided  them  to  the  main  road, 
not  long  since  cut  through  the  woods  by  the  sol- 
diers of  Julian's  general,  Severus. 

The  barbarians,  in  order  to  cut  off  the  road,  had 
hewn  huge  trees  across  it,  as  was  their  wont. 

The  two  wanderers  had  to  get  over  them.  These 
enormous  stems  fallen  in  disorder,  rotten,  covered 
with  moss,  and  breaking  away  under  their  feet; 
or  sound,  soaked  with  the  rain,  and  slippery,  hin- 
dered them  at  every  step.  And  along  such  a  road, 
in  constant  fear  of  an  attack,  the  thirty  thousand 
men  of  Julian's  army  had  to  advance,  after  all  the 
leaders  except  Severus  had  treacherously  deserted 
him. 

Strombicus  began  to  complain  and  abuse  his 
companion. 

"I'll  go  no  further,  you  heathen!    I'll  lie  down 


Julian  in  Battle.  187 

in  the  dry  leaves  and  die,  and  at  least  I  won't  see 
your  cursed  face.  Ugh,  you  pagan!  It  is  easy  to 
see  that  you  have  no  cross.  Is  it  a  Christian's 
business  to  tumble  along  roads  like  this,  especially 
at  night?  And  where,  I  ask  you,  are  we  going? 
Straight  under  the  rod  of  that  centurion  the 
enemy  of  God.  Fall,  if  you  like;  I  won't  go  any 
further." 

Aragarius  dragged  him  along  by  force,  and  as 
soon  as  the  road  grew  evener,  put  his  whimsical 
companion  on  his  shoulders  once  more,  in  spite  of 
his  opposition,  cries,  and  pinches. 

But  after  a  little  while,  Strombicus  fell  into  a 
deep  sleep  on  the  "heathen's"  back. 

At  midnight  they  reached  the  gates  of  the 
Roman  camp.  All  was  still.  The  draw-bridge 
over  the  deep  moat  had  long  been  raised. 

The  two  friends  had  to  pass  the  night  near  the 
rear  gate,  the  so-called  decuman  gate. 

At  dawn  the  trumpet  sounded.  In  the  misty 
forest,  that  smelt  of  burning  wood,  a  nightingale 
was  singing.  He  became  suddenly  silent,  startled 
by  the  martial  sound.  Aragarius,  waking,  smelt 
the  odor  of  the  hot  soldiers'  pottage,  and  wakened 
Strombicus.  They  were  both  so  hungry  that  in 
spite  of  the  twisted  rod  with  which  the  detested 
centurion  Cede-Alteram  had  had  time  to  arm  him- 
self, they  entered  the  camp,  and.  sat  down  beside 
the  common  cooking-pot. 

Julian  was  awake  in  the  chief  tent,  beside  the 
Pretorian  gate. 

From  the  day  when  he  was  made  Caesar  in  Me- 
diolanum,  thanks  to  the  protection  of  the  Empress 
Eusebia,  Julian  had  applied  himself  zealously  to 
the  arts  of  war.  Not  only  did  he  learn  the  higher 


188  Julian  the  Apostate. 

branches  of  generalship  under  the  guidance  of  Se- 
verus, but  he  desired  to  know  also  what  made  up 
the  trade  of  the  simple  soldier.  At  the  sound  of 
the  bronze  trumpet,  in  the  gloomy  barracks  on  the 
Campus  Martius,  along  with  the  recruits,  he 
learned  to  march  for  whole  days,  to  shoot  with  the 
bow,  to  run  under  the  burden  of  a  complete  outfit, 
to  leap  over  barriers  and  obstacles,  to  box.  Over- 
coming the  monk's  dissembling,  the  blood  of  the 
race  of  Constantine  wakened  in  the  youth,  the 
blood  of  a  whole  line  of  stern,  stubborn  warriors. 

"Alas,  divine  lamblichus  and  Plato;  if  you  saw 
what  had  become  of  your  pupil,"  he  exclaimed 
sometimes,  wiping  the  sweat  from  his  face,  and 
pointing  to  the  heavy  bronze  accoutrements,  he 
said  to  his  teacher: 

"Is  it  not  true,  Severus,  that  armor  is  as  little 
suited  to  me,  a  peaceful  pupil  of  the  philosophers, 
as  a  war-saddle  to  a  lazy  ox?" 

Severus  smiled  cunningly,  without  answering. 
He  knew  that  these  sighs  and  complaints  were  in- 
sincere. In  reality  the  Caesar  himself  rejoiced  at 
his  rapid  success  in  military  science. 

In  a  few  months  he  had  changed  so  much,  had 
grown  so  manly,  that  many  people  had  difficulty 
in  recognizing  the  lean  "little  Greek"  as  he  had 
once  been  called  in  mockery,  at  Constantins' 
court.  Only  his  eyes  burned  with  the  same  strange, 
over-keen,  almost  feverish  fire  which  made  them 
memorable  for  all,  even  after  a  moment's  ac- 
quaintance. 

Every  day  Julian  felt  himself  stronger  and 
stronger,  not  only  in  body  but  in  mind.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  he  experienced  the  simple 
love  of  simple  folk.  To  begin  with,  the  legionaries 


Julian  in  Battle.  189 

were  pleased  that  the  Caesar  himself,  the  cousin  of 
Augustus,  learned  the  trade  of  war  in  the  bar- 
racks, not  ashamed  of  the  soldier's  rough  life.  The 
stern  faces  of  the  veteran  warriors  lit  up  with  a  ten- 
der smile,  as  they  watched  the  Caesar's  growing 
skill,  remembering  their  own  youth,  and  wonder- 
ing at  his  rapid  success.  He  came  up  and  talked 
to  them,  listening  to  their  stories  of  strange  cam- 
paigns, their  advice  how  to  fasten  a  breast-plate 
so  that  it  should  gall  him  least,  or  how  to  set  his 
foot  down  so  as  not  to  grow  tired  on  a  long  march. 
A  rumor  spread  that  the  Emperor  Constantius  was 
sending  the  inexperienced  youth  to  Gaul  "to  the 
slaughter,"  to  meet  death  at  the  hands  of  the  bar- 
barians, in  order  to  get  rid  of  a  rival;  that  the  gen- 
erals, under  the  directions  of  the  court  eunuchs, 
were  to  betray  the  Caesar.  This  kindled  the  love 
of  the  soldiers  to  Julian  even  more  strongly. 

With  the  watchful  stealth,  and  skill  in  winning 
good  opinions  which  his  monastic  education  had 
bestowed  upon  him,  he  did  all  that  was  possible 
to  strengthen  their  love  for  himself  and  their  ha- 
tred for  the  emperor.  He  spoke  before  the  sol- 
diers of  his  brother  Constantius,  dropping  his  eyes 
with  an  enigmatic  and  crafty  humility,  and  taking 
the  airs  of  a  victim. 

It  was  the  easier  for  him  to  win  the  love  of  the 
soldiers  by  his  daring,  as  death  in  battle  seemed  to 
him  to  be  enviable  in  comparison  with  the  inglo- 
rious execution  which  had  overtaken  his  brother, 
and  which  Augustus  was  probably  preparing  for 
him. 

Julian  ordered  his  life  according  to  the  example 
of  the  great  generals  of  old.  The  stoic  education 


190  Julian  the  Apostate. 

of  the  Scythian  pedagogue,  Mardonius,  had  accus- 
tomed him  to  do  without  luxury  from  his  youth. 

He  slept  less  than  the  common  soldiers,  and 
then  not  in  a  bed,  but  on  a  rough  skin,  with  long 
wool,  which  the  common  people  called  in  Greek: 
"suburra."  The  first  part  of  the  night,  the  Caesar 
consecrated  to  rest;  the  second,  to  imperial  and 
military  business;  the  third,  to  the  Muses. 

His  favorite  books  did  not  leave  him  even  on 
the  march.  He  read  at  night,  and  drew  inspira- 
tion from  Marcus  Aurelius,  or  Plutarch,  or  Sueto- 
nius, or  Cato  the  Censor.  By  day  he  tried  to  carry 
out  in  action  what  he  had  thought,  over  his  books, 
at  night. 

On  that  memorable  morning,  before  the  battle 
of  Argentoratum,  hearing  the  trumpet-call,  Julian 
hastily  put  on  his  full  armor,  and  ordered  his 
horse  to  be  brought. 

While  waiting,  he  retired  to  the  loneliest,  most 
hidden  part  of  his  tent.  Here  was  a  small,  elegant 
statue  of  Mercury,  with  his  caduceus,  the  god  of 
motion,  success,  and  joy,  winged  as  if  for  flight. 
Julian  bowed  down,  and  threw  a  grain  of  incense 
on  a  small  tripod.  By  the  direction  of  the  smoke, 
the  Cffisar,  proud  of  his  knowledge  of  the  augur's 
art,  tried  to  discern  whether  the  day  would  be 
favorable  for  him.  That  night,  he  had  heard  a 
raven  croak  thrice  on  the  right  side,  and  this  was 
an  evil  omen. 

Julian  was  so  convinced  that  his  unexpected 
successes  in  war  in  this  Gallic  campaign  were  not 
the  work  of  human  hands,  that  every  day  he  be- 
came more  superstitious. 

Leaving  his  pavilion,  he  stumbled  against  the 
wooden  slab  on  the  threshold.  The  Ca?sar's  face 


Julian  in  Battle.  191 

grew  overshadowed.  All  the  omens  were  unfavor- 
able. He  secretly  decided  to  put  off  the  battle  till 
the  next  day. 

The  army  started.  The  way  through  the  forest 
was  difficult;  heaps  of  fallen  trees  barred  their 
passage  all  the  time. 

The  day  promised  to  be  hot.  The  army  had 
only  crossed  half  the  distance,  and  to  the  camp  of 
the  barbarians  pitched  on  the  left  bank  of  the 
Khine,  on  a  great  level  plain  near  the  city  of  Ar- 
gentoratum,  there  still  remained  twenty-one  thou- 
sand paces,  when  midday  came. 

The  soldiers  were  growing  tired. 

As  they  were  leaving  the  forest  for  the  plain, 
Julian  called  them  round  him,  and  set  them  in 
circles,  like  the  spectators  in  an  amphitheatre,  so 
that  he  himself  was  in  the  center  of  the  circles, 
and  the  centuries  and  cohorts  spread  out  from 
him  like  expanding  rays.  This  was  the  wonted 
order  in  Eoman  armies,  arranged  so  that  the 
greatest  number  of  men  could  hear  the  general's 
speech. 

He  explained  to  them,  in  short  simple  words, 
that  the  hour  was  late;  that  their  weariness  might 
hinder  their  success;  that  it  would  be  wiser  to 
pitch  their  camp  on  the  ground  they  occupied;  to 
rest,  and  on  the  following  morning  to  fall  on  the 
barbarians  with  fresh  strength. 

A  murmur  arose  through  the  ranks.  The  sol- 
diers struck  their  spears  against  their  shields,  in 
sign  of  impatience.  With  cries  thev  demanded 
that  Julian  should  lead  them  to  battle  without 
delay.  The  Cassar  looked  around,  and  by  the  ex- 
pression of  their  faces  understood  that  he  should 
not  oppose  them.  He  felt  that  terrible  tremor 


192  Julian  the  Apostate. 

through  the  crowd  already  familiar  to  him  which 
is  indispensable  for  victory,  and  which  the  slight- 
est carelessness  may  turn  into  anger. 

Julian  leaped  on  his  horse,  and  gave  the  sign  for 
the  soldiers  to  continue  on  their  march.  A  cry  of 
joy  arose,  and  the  army  set  forth. 

When  the  afternoon  sun  began  to  descend,  they 
had  reached  the  plain  of  Argentoratum.  Amongst 
low  hills  shone  the  Rhine.  The  forest-clad  moun- 
tains of  Vogesus  darkened  the  south. 

Swallows  were  skimming  over  the  surface  of  the 
mighty  and  lonely  German  stream.  Willows  bent 
their  silvery  boughs  over  it. 

Suddenly  three  horsemen  appeared  on  a  neigh- 
boring hill.  They  were  the  barbarians. 

The  Romans  stopped,  and  began  to  form  in  bat- 
tle array.  Julian,  surrounded  by  six  hundred 
horsemen,  clad  in  iron,  led  the  cavalry  on  the 
right  wing;  on  the  left,  the  infantry  was  led  by 
the  old  and  experienced  general  Severus,  whose 
advice  the  young  Ca?sar  listened  to  in  every- 
thing. Against  Julian,  the  barbarians  ranged  their 
cavalry:  at  their  head  was  Cnodomar,  the  Alaman 
king  himself;  against  Severus,  Cnodomar's  young- 
nephew,  Agenaric,  with  the  infantry. 

The  war-trumpets  of  bronze,  horns,  and  curved 
buccinae  thundered.  The  standards  and  flags, 
with  the  numbers  of  the  cohorts,  the  purple  drag- 
ons and  bronze  Roman  eagles  at  the  head  of  the 
legionaries,  moved  forwards.  In  front,  with  calm 
and  stern  faces,  stepping  with  measured,  heavy 
tread,  under  which  the  earth  trembled  and  re- 
sounded, marched  the  axe-bearers  and  primopil- 
arii,  accustomed  to  victory. 

Suddenly  the  infantry  under  Severus  on  the  left 


Julian  in  Battle.  193 

flank  halted.  The  barbarians,  who  had  been  hid- 
den in  a  ditch,  suddenly  leaped  forth  from  their 
ambuscade  and  fell  on  the  Romans.  Julian  saw 
the  conf  usio'n  from  afar,  and  hastened  to  their  as- 
sistance. He  tried  to  calm  the  soldiers,  and  turned 
now  to  one  cohort,  now  to  another,  imitating  the 
terse  and  vigorous  style  of  Julius  Caesar.  When 
he  pronounced  the  words:  "exsurgamus,  viri  for- 
tissimi,"  or  "advenit,  socii,  justum  pugnandi  tern- 
pus,"  this  twenty-six-year-old  youth  thought  with 
pride:  "Now  I  am  like  this  or  another  comman- 
der." And  even  in  the  dust  of  battle,  he  was  in 
thought  surrounded  with  books,  and  was  rejoicing 
that  all  happened  just  as  Livy,  Plutarch,  or  Sal- 
lust  had  described  it.  The  experienced  Severus 
moderated  his  fire  with  wise  counsels,  and  the  ex- 
ample of  his  own  calm,  and  whilst  giving  Julian  a 
certain  freedom,  did  not  let  the  main  guidance  of 
the  army  out  of  his  own  hands. 

Arrows  whistled,  the  spears  of  the  barbarians, 
thrown  with  long  thongs,  and  huge  stones  from 
the  military  machines,  sang  through  the  air. 

Finally,  the  Romans  saw  the  strange  and  terri- 
ble men  of  the  north  face  to  face,  the  inhabitants 
of  the  dreaming  forests  across  the  Rhine,  of  whom 
so  many  marvelous  tales  were  told.  Here  were 
wonderful  weapons  also;  and  some  had  huge,  bare 
backs,  covered  with  bear-skins,  instead  of  clothes, 
find  instead  of  helmets  on  their  shaggy  heads,  were 
the  open  mouths  of  beasts  of  prey  with  white 
tusks.  Others  wore  the  horns  of  stags  and  buffa- 
loes above  their  casques.  The  Alamans  despised 
death  so  much  that  they  threw  themselves  into  the 
battle  perfectly  naked,  with  only  a  sword  and  a 
spear.  Their  red  hair  was  tied  in  a  knot  on  the 


194  Julian  the  Apostate. 

tops  of  their  heads,  and  behind  fell  in  huge  plaits 
like  a  horse's  mane.  Their  fair  mustaches,  stand- 
ing out  against  their  ruddy  faces,  hung  down  long 
on  either  side.  Many  of  them  were  so  wild  that 
they  did  not  know  the  use  of  iron,  lighting  with 
•spears  of  fish-bone  smeared  with  a  deadly  poison, 
which  made  them  more  dangerous  than  iron:  the 
slightest  scratch  was  enough  to  bring  a  slow  and 
painful  death.  From  head  to  foot,  instead  of  mail, 
they  wore  coats  of  thin  plates  of  horn,  made  from 
horses'  hoofs,  and  sewn  strongly  on  linen  cloths: 
in  this  array  the  unfamiliar  barbarians  seemed 
strange  monsters  covered  with  birds'  feathers  and 
fishes'  scales.  The  Saxon  was  there,  with  his  light 
blue  eyes:  the  sea  daunted  him  not,  but  he  feared 
the  earth  on  which  he  stood;  and  the  old  Sicam- 
brian  was  there:  he  cut  his  hair  off,  after  the  bat- 
tle, in  sign  of  mourning,  and  had  now  let  it  grow 
again;  and  Heruli,  with  eyes  of  clouded  green, 
almost  the  color  of  the  waters  of  the  ocean,  on 
that  distant  gulf  which  they  inhabited;  and  the 
Burgundian  and  Batavian,  and  wild  Sarmatian, 
and  many  more,  nameless,  half -beasts  half -men, 
whose  dread  faces  the  Eomans  only  saw  when 
death  was  coming  upon  them. 

The  primopilarii,  uniting  their  shields,  made  a 
smooth  wall  of  bronze,  proof  against  all  attack, 
and  advanced  at  a  slow  pace.  The  Alamans  threw 
themselves  upon  them  with  cries  like  the  roaring 
of  bears.  A  hand-to-hand  fight  began,  breast  to 
breast,  shield  to  shield.  The  dust  spread  over  the 
plain,  concealing  the  sun. 

At  that  moment  on  the  right  wing  of  the  army, 
the  iron-mailed  Clibanarian  cavalry  wavered  and 


Julian  in  Battle.  195 

turned  in  flight.  It  seemed  about  to  crush  the 
legions  in  the  rear. 

.  Across  a  cloud  of  arrows  and  spears  against  the 
dust-veiled  sun  shone  the  flaming  circlet  that 
bound  the  kingly  brow  of  Cnodomar. 

Julian  sprang  on  his  black  horse  in  time.  He 
understood  the  stratagem.  The  barbarian  infan- 
try, intentionally  mingling  with  the  ranks  of  their 
own  horsemen,  slipped  under  the  feet  of  the 
Roman  horse  and  gashed  their  bellies  with  their 
short  swords.  The  horses  fell,  and  carried  their 
iron-mailed  riders  with  them,  no  longer  able  to 
rise  from  the  great  weight  of  their  armor. 

Julian  barred  the  way.  He  determined  either 
to  stop  the  fleeing  horse  or  be  trodden  under  foot. 
The  horse  of  the  fleeing  tribune  of  the  Clibana- 
rians  dashed  up  against  the  Caesar's  horse.  He 
recognized  Julian,  and  stopped,  pale  with  shame 
and  fear.  All  the  blood  flowed  to  Julian's  face, 
he  suddenly  forgot  his  classic  authors,  bent  over, 
seized  the  fugitive  by  the  throat,  and  cried  out 
"Coward !"  in  a  voice  that  seemed  wild  and  strange 
even  to  himself. 

And  the  Ca?sar  turned  his  face  towards  the 
enemy. 

Then  all  the  fugitives  halted,  recognizing  the 
Caesar's  purple  standard,  torn  in  the  conflict,  and 
were  ashamed.  In  a  single  moment,  the  iron  tor- 
rent turned  roaring  backwards,  and  strained  back 
again  against  the  barbarians. 

All  was  in  confusion.  A  spear  struck  Julian  on 
the  breast.  His  breast-plate  saved  him.  An  arrow 
whistled  past  his  ear,  so  close  that  the  feathers 
brushed  his  cheek. 

At  the  same  moment,  Severus  sent  the  terrible 


196  Julian  the  Apostate. 

legions  of  Cornuti  and  Braccati,  half-savage  allies 
of  the  Romans,  to  help  the  wavering  cavalry. 
Their  habit  was  to  chant  their  battle  hymn  only 
in  last  deadly  danger  and  delirium  of  battle. 

The  Cornuti  and  Braccati  began  their  chant  in 
a  low  and  melancholy  tone:  the  first  sounds  were 
soft  as  the  nightly  murmur  of  the  leaves;  then 
little  by  little  the  wild  music  rose  louder,  more 
inajestic  and  terrible,  and  finally  broke  out  into  a 
furious  and  deafening  roar,  like  the  roar  of  the 
storm-lashed  waves  of  the  ocean  crashing  against 
the  cliffs.  This  chant  intoxicated  them  till  they 
utterly  forgot  themselves. 

Julian  no  longer  saw  or  understood  what  was 
going  on  round  him.  He  felt  only  a  consuming 
thirst,  and  a  weariness  in  his  right  hand,  which 
held  his  sword.  Time  did  not  exist  for  him.  But 
Severus  did  not  lose  his  presence  of  mind,  and 
wisely  directed  the  combat. 

With  bewilderment  and  despair  Csesar  noticed 
the  orange  circlet  of  dark  Cnodomar  in  the  very 
middle,  among  the  ranks  of  his  army.  The  bar- 
barian cavalry  had  cut  into  them  like  a  wedge. 
Julian  thought:  "It  is  finished;  all  is  lost."  He  re- 
membered the  evil  omens  of  the  morning,  and 
turned  with  a  final  prayer  to  the  Olympian  gods: 

"Help!  for  if  I  fall,  there  is  none  who  will  re- 
store your  power  on  earth." 

In  the  heart  of  the  army  were  the  old  veterans 
of  the  legion  of  the  Petulantes,  "the  fiery,"  called 
so  from  their  daring.  Severus  counted  on  them 
and  reckoned  not  in  vain.  One  of  the  Petulantes 
cried  out: 

"Oh  bravest  of  men!  We  shall  not  betray  Eome 
and  our  Caesar.  Let  us  die  for  Julian!" 


Julian  in  Battle.  197 

"Long  live  Julian  Caesar!  For  Rome!  For 
Koine!"  strong  voices  answered  him. 

And  the  old  men,  who  had  grown  grey  beneath 
their  standards,  once  more  went  forth  to  death, 
stern  and  full  of  peace. 

The  inspiration  of  everlasting  Eome  was 
breathed  out  over  the  soldiers. 

Julian,  with  tears  of  ecstasy,  threw  himself 
among  the  veterans,  ready  to  die  with  them.  And 
once  more  he  felt  the  power  of  simple  love,  the 
love  of  the  people,  raising  him  as  on  wings  and 
bearing  him  to  victory. 

Then  terror  descended  on  the  hordes  of  the  bar- 
barians. They  shuddered,  wavered,  and  fled. 

And  the  bronze  eagles  of  the  legions,  with  their 
cruel  beaks  and  their  wide-spread  wings  gleamed 
terribly  in  the  sun  amid  the  dust,  soaring  once 
again,  and  foretelling  to  the  fleeing  tribes  the  vic- 
tory of  the  Eternal  City. 

The  Alamans  and  Franks  were  falling,  fighting 
to  their  latest  breath. 

Kneeling  on  one  knee  in  a  pool  of  blood,  a  bar- 
barian still  raised  his  blunted  sword,  or  broken 
spear,  with  trembling  hand.  In  his  eyes  already 
veiled  by  death,  there  was  no  fear,  but  only  the 
thirst  of  revenge,  and  contempt  for  the  victor. 

Even  those  whom  they  took  for  dead,  raised 
themselves  from  the  ground,  half  hacked  to  pieces, 
and  caught  the  enemies'  feet  in  their  teeth,  and 
bit  into  them  so  fiercely  that  the  Romans  dragged 
them  along  the  ground. 

Six  thousand  northern  men  fell  on  the  field  of 
battle,  or  were  drowned  in  the  Rhine. 

That  evening,  when  Julian  Caesar  stood  on  a 
hillock,  surrounded  by  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun, 


198  Julian  the  Apostate. 

as  by  an  oreole,  they  brought  King  Cnodomar,who 
had  been  captured  on  the  right  bank  of  the  river. 
He  breathed  heavily,  sombre,  sweat-covered  and 
pale.  His  hands  were  bound  behind  his  back.  He 
knelt  before  his  conqueror,  and  the  twenty-six- 
year-old  youth  laid  his  small  hand  on  the  dishev- 
eled mane  of  the  barbarian  king. 


CHAPTER  XX. 
THE  PASSING  OF  MYRA. 

It  was  the  time  of  the  gathering  of  the  grapes. 
All  day  long,  songs  resounded  along  the  gay  shores 
of  the  bay  of  Naples. 

In  Baii,  the  favorite  resort  of  the  Eomans  be- 
yond the  city, — Baii,  famous  for  its  healing  sul- 
phur baths,  of  which  the  poets  of  the  Augustan 
age  used  to  say:  "Nullus  in  orbe  locus  Baiis  prelu- 
cet  amoenis" — idlers  were  delighting  in  nature, 
more  delicate  and  sensuous  even  than  themselves. 

Here  was  an  inviolable  nook  of  that  refined  and 
comfortable  world  which  filled  the  imaginations 
of  Horace,  Propertius,  and  Tibullus. 

Not  even  a  single  shadow  of  the  monastic  age 
yet  lay  on  the  sunny  shore  between  Vesuvius  and 
the. cape  of  Misenum.  Here,  men  did  not  oppose 
Christianity,  but  kept  away  from  it,  with  light- 
minded  jests.  Here  the  harlots  had  not  yet  re- 
pented, but  rather  honest  women  were  ashamed  of 
their  goodness,  as  a  worn-out  fashion.  When 
rumors  came,  of  the  Sybilline  prophecies  threat- 
ening the  worn-out  world  with  destruction,  of  the 


The  Passing  of  Myra.  -    199 

evil  deeds  and  dark  bigotry  of  the  Emperor  Con- 
stantius,  of  the  Persians  advancing  from  the  east, 
of  the  clouds  of  barbarians  gathering  in  the  north,, 
of  the  hermits  who  had  lost  all  semblance  of  hu- 
manity in  the  deserts  of  the  Thebait!,  the  happy 
inhabitants  of  those  regions  closed  their  eyes,  in- 
haling the  delicious  savor  of  Falernian  clusters, 
just  crushed  in  the  wine-presses,  and  consoled 
themselves  with  an  epigram.  To  forget  the  sor- 
rows of  Rome,  or  the  forebodings  of  the  end  of 
the  world,  a  few  witty  verses,  which  they  sent  to 
each  other  as  presents,  sufficed: 

Calet  unda,  friget  aethra 
Simid  innalat  chords 
Amalhusium  renidens, 
Sails  arbitra  et  vaporia 
Flos  siderum  Dione  ! 

There  was  something  senile  and  at  the  same 
time  childish  on  the  faces  of  the  last  of  the  Epicu- 
reans. Neither  the  fresh  sea  water  of  the  salt 
baths,  nor  the  sulphur  vapor  of  the  Baiian  springs 
could  bring  perfect  health  to  the  decrepit  and 
over-sensitive  bodies  of  the  young  men,  bald  at 
twenty,  grown  old  not  even  from  their  own  im- 
morality but  from  the  immorality  of  their  ances- 
tors, sated  with  letters  and  learning  and  women, 
witty  and  impotent,  in  whose  veins  was  the  thin, 
cold  blood  of  belated  generations. 

In  one  of  the  most  comfortable  and  flowery  cor- 
ners, between  Baii  and  Puteoli,  among  the  flat 
black  summits  of  the  Italian  pines,  gleamed  the 
white  walls  of  a  villa. 

At  a  wide-open  window,  looking  straight  out  to 
sea,  so  that  nothing  was  visible  from  the  windows 
but  sky  and  sea,  Myra  lay  on  a  couch. 


200  Julian  the  Apostate. 

The  doctors  did  not  understand  her  illness.  Ar- 
sinoe  saw  her  sister  waste  and  lose  strength  from 
day  to  day.  She  carried  her  away  from  Rome  to 
the  sea-side. 

Myra,  in  spite  of  her  sickness,  imitated  the  nuns 
and  hermits,  doing  her  room  herself,  bringing 
water  herself,  and  even  trying  to  wash  the  linen, 
and  cook  the  food.  For  a  long  time,  as  long  as  it 
was  at  all  possible,  she  would  not  consent  to  re- 
main on  her  couch,  and  spent  her  nights  in  prayer 
and  reading.  Once,  to  her  horror,  Arsinoe  found 
a  hair-shirt  on  her  sister's  tender  body.  Myra  or- 
dered all  articles  of  luxury  to  be  taken  from  her 
little  bedroom, — all  tapestries  and  furniture,  leav- 
ing only  one  couch,  with  a  simple  wooden 
cross  at  its  head.  The  room,  with  its  bare  walls, 
grew  to  look  like  a  monastic  cell.  Myra  observed 
a  strict  fast.  Arsinoe  had  great  difficulty  in  con- 
tending with  her  obstinate  and  quiet  will. 

Weariness  had  left  Arsinoe's  life,  without  leav- 
ing a  trace.  She  was  constantly  passing  from  the 
hope  that  Myra  would  grow  well,  to  despair,  and 
although  she  did  not  love  her  more  than  before, 
she  only  now  understood  her  love,  in  the  fear  of 
everlasting  separation. 

Sometimes  Arsinoe  gazed  with  motherly  tender- 
ness at  the  thin,  delicate  face,  breathing  an  un- 
earthly charm,  at  the  little  body,  burning  with  a 
too  vehement  inner  fire.  When  the  invalid  obsti- 
nately refused  wine  and  food  prescribed  by  the 
doctor,  Arsinoe  said  sorrowfully: 

"Myra,  do  you  think  I  do  not  understand?  You 
are  seeking  death.  What  are  you  doing  with  your- 
self?" 

"Is  it  not  all  the  same  whether  we  live  or  die?" 


The  Passing  of  Myra.  201 

answered  the  girl  with  such  serenity  that  Arsinoe 
knew  not  what  to  reply. 

"You  do  not  love  me." 

But  Myra  drew  near  to  her  caressingly,  and  as- 
sured her: 

"Dearest,  you  know  how  I  love  you.  Oh,  if  you 
could  only— 

The  sick  girl  never  completed  the  sentence,  or 
asked  her  sister  whether  she  believed.  But  some- 
times she  looked  at  Arsinoe  with  great,  sad  eyes, 
as  if  she  wished  to  say  something  to  her,  and  dared 
not.  Arsinoe  felt  a  dumb  reproach  in  that  long 
gaze.  Yet  she  did  not  talk  to  her  of  her  faith,  and 
had  not  the  heart  to  communicate  her  doubts  to 
her,  and  perhaps  to  take  away  from  her  an  unrea- 
soning hope  for  the  miracle  of  immortality. 

Myra  grew  weaker  with  every  day,  wasting  away 
like  the  wax  of  a  burning  candle,  but  the  weaker 
she  grew,  the  more  joyful  and  full  of  peace  she 
became. 

Juventinus  came  to  them  in  the  evenings;  he 
was  in  Naples  fleeing  from  Rome,  fearing  his 
mother's  persecutions,  and  was  awaiting  the  de- 
parture of  the  ship  for  Alexandria,  with  Didymus 
the  elder. 

He  read  the  Gospel  and  related  legends  of  the 
hermit  fathers. 

He  told  Myra  of  the  three  women  who  had  not 
seen  a  human  face  for  many  decades,  and  had 
lived,  naked  as  in  paradise,  at  the  bottom  of  an 
abyss,  under  the  impenetrable  shadow  of  green 
trees  beside  an  icy  spring.  Ever  joyful,  day  and 
night  they  praised  the  blessed  Trinity,  living  on 
fruit  brought  by  the  birds  of  the  air,  and  fearing 
neither  the  winter's  cold,  nor  the  summer's  heat, 


202  Julian  the  Apostate. 

for  God  sheltered  them,  and  warmed  them  with 
His  blessing. 

With  childish  joy,  she  listened  to  the  story  of 
the  incomparable  Gerasimus,  who  made  friends 
with  a  lion,  and  lived  in  the  same  cave  with  him. 
The  lion  led  his  ass  to  the  watering  place,  and 
watched  the  saint  kindly  with  his  bright  kingly 
eyes,  when  Gerasimus  stroked  his  formidable  mane. 
After  the  saint's  death,  the  lion  wandered  long 
through  the  desert,  uttering  mournful  roars.  And 
when  brought  to  the  saint's  tomb,  the  lion  began 
to  sniff  at  it,  and  refusing  food,  remained  there 
until  he  died  of  starvation. 

She  was  touched  by  the  tale  of  another  hermit, 
who  cured  a  hyena's  whelps  of  blindness,  when 
their  mother  brought  them  in  her  mouth  to  the 
saint's  feet. 

How  Myra  longed  to  go  there,  to  the  dark,  silent 
caverns,  to  those  great  and  mysterious  people! 
The  wilderness  appeared  to  her  neither  mournful 
nor  fruitless,  but  green  and  full  of  flowers,  an 
earthly  paradise,  full  of  wonders,  and  lit  up  by  a 
noonday  radiance  such  as  is  nowhere'  on  earth. 
She  felt  the  air  close  and  oppressive,  under  a 
roofed  house. 

Sometimes,  in  fever,  in  periods  of  suffering, 
overcome  by  her  thirst  for  the  desert,  she  gazed 
at  the  ships'  white  sails,  vanishing  over  the  sea, 
and  stretched  her  thin  white  arms  after  them. 
Oh,  if  she  could  only  fly  after  them,  and  breathe 
the  sweet  air  of  the  desert,  full  of  silence,  free 
from  passion!  Sometimes  she  tried  to  rise,  assur- 
ing them  that  she  was  better,  that  now  she  would 
soon  be  well,  and  secretly  hoping  that  they  would 


The  Passing  of  Myra.  203 

let  her  go  with  Didymus  and  Juventinus  when  the 
Alexandrian  ship  arrived. 

At  that  time  the  centurion  Anatolius,  the  un- 
changing friend  and  worshipper  of  Arsinoe,  was 
living  in  Baii. 

The  young  Epicurean  arranged  charming  excur- 
sions on  gilded  barques  from  the  Avernian  lake  to 
the  bay,  with  gay  companions  and  beautiful 
women.  He  delighted  in  the  appearance  of  the 
purple  sharp-pointed  sails,  on  the  surface  of  the 
sleeping  sea,  the  soft  mingling  of  sunset  colors  on 
the  cliffs  of  Capri  and  vapor-clad  Ischia,  that 
looked  like  great,  transparent  amethysts.  He  re- 
joiced at  his  friends'  mocking  at  all  belief  in  the 
gods,  at  the  odor  of  the  wine,  and  at  the  heartless, 
yet  intoxicating  kisses  of  the  harlots. 

But  every  time  he  entered  Myra's  silent  monas- 
tic cell,  he  felt  that  another  side  of  life  was  open 
to  him.  The  perfect  charm  of  her  pale  face 
touched  him.  He  wished  to  believe  in  all  that  she 
believed,  in  the  gentle  Galilean,  and  in  the  miracle 
of  immortality.  He  listened  to  Juventinus'  stories, 
about  the  great  hermits,  and  their  life  seemed 
grand  to  him. 

Anatolius  noted  with  wonder  that  for  him  there 
was  truth  in  the  one  and  in  the  other;  in  enjoy- 
ment of  life,  and  in  renunciation  of  life;  in  the 
flesh  triumphant  and  in  the  spirit  triumphant;  in 
perfection,  and  in  passion. 

His  thought  remained  clear.  He  felt  no  gnaw- 
ings  of  conscience. 

Doubt  even  pleased  him,  like  a  new  game:  those 
soft  deep  waves  of  life,  the  passages  from  Chris- 
tianity to  heathenism,  did  not  torment  him,  but 
rather  soothed  and  caressed  him. 


20-i  Julian  the  Apostate. 

One  evening  Myra  went  to  sleep  before  the  open 
window.  When  she  awoke,  she  said  to  Juventinus, 
with  a  glad  smile: 

"I  had  a  strange  dream." 

"What  was  it?" 

"I  do  not  remember.  Only  I  feel  happy.  What 
do  you  think, — will  all  be  saved?" 

"All  the  just;  and  the  wicked  will  be  punished." 

"The  just!  the  wicked!  I  think  differently,"  an- 
swered Myra,  still  with  the  same  glad  and  thought- 
ful smile,  as  if  trying  to  remember  her  dream. 
"Juventinus,  do  you  know  I  think  that  all,  all  will 
be  saved, — that  God  will  not  leave  one  to  perish!" 

"So  thought  the  great  teacher,  Origen;  he  said: 
'My  Saviour  cannot  rejoice,  while  I  remain  in 
iniquity/  But  that  is  heresy." 

Myra  did  not  listen,  but  continued: 

"Yes,  yes,  it  must  be  so!  I  understand  now:  all 
will  be  saved,  to  the  last  one:  God  will  not  permit 
any  of  his  creatures  to  perish." 

"I  also  wished  to  believe  that,  at  times,"  said 
Juventinus;  "but  I  was  afraid." 

"You  ought  not  to  be  afraid.  If  love  is,  there  is 
no  fear.  I  am  afraid  of  nothing." 

"And  how  of  him?"  asked  Juventinus,  timidly. 

"Of  whom?" 

"He  whom  we  should  not  name, — the  Adver- 
sary." 

"He  also,  he  also,"  exclaimed  Myra,  with  fear- 
less faith,  "while  there  remains  even  a  single  soul 
which  has  not  attained  salvation,  no  being  can 
enjoy  perfect  blessedness.  If  there  are  no  limits 
to  love,  how  could  it  be  otherwise?  All  things  will 
be  in  God,  and  God  will  be  all  things.  Dearest, 
what  a  joy  is  life;  only  understand  what  a  joy  it  is! 


The  Passing  of  Myra.  205 

We  have  not  yet  learned  to  estimate  it  aright.  But 
we  must  bless  all  things, — do  you  feel,  my  brother, 
what  it  means  to  bless  all  things?" 

"Evil  also?" 

"There  is  no  evil,  if  there  is  no  death." 

The  joyful  Bacchanalian  songs  of  Anatolius' 
companions  floated  in  through  the  window,  from 
the  festal  barque,  bright  with  purple,  its  sharp- 
pointed  sails  marked  clear  against  the  dark  blue 
of  the  sunset  sea. 

Myra  pointed  to  them: 

"That  also  is  beautiful,  and  we  must  bless  that 
too,"  she  murmured  softly,  as  if  to  herself." 

"The  sinful  songs?"  asked  Juventinus,  fear- 
fully. 

Myra  shook  her  head: 

"N"o,  no!  all  is  good;  all  is  clean.  Beauty  is 
God's  light.  What  do  you  fear,  dearest?  Oh  what 
liberty  we  need,  to  love.  Love  Him,  and  fear  not. 
You  do  not  know  yet  what  a  .joy  life  is." 

"And  sighing  deeply,  as  if  in  expectation  of  a 
great  rest,  she  added: 

"And  what  a  happiness  is — death." 

That  was  her  last  talk.  She  lay  for  several  days, 
silent  and  motionless,  without  opening  her  eyes. 
Perhaps  she  suffered  greatly,  for  her  finely  marked 
brows  sometimes  contracted  tremulously,  but  im- 
mediately the  same  weak,  gentle  smile  returned, 
and  not  a  groan,  not  a  complaint,  passed  her  lips. 

Once,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  she  called 
Arsinoe  in  an  almost  inaudible  voice.  Arsinoe  was 
sitting  beside  her.  The  sick  girl  could  hardly 
speak.  She  asked,  without  raising  her  eyelids: 

"Is  it  day?" 


206  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"No,  it  is  still  night,"  answered  Arsinoe,  "but 
it  will  soon  be  morning." 

"I  do  not  hear.  Who  are  you?"  said  Myra,  still 
lower. 

"It  is  I, — Arsinoe." 

The  sick  girl  suddenly  opened  her  great  bright 
eyes,  and  looked  steadily  at  her  sister. 

"It  seemed  to  me,"  murmured  Myra  with  a 
great  effort,  "that  you  were  not  there;  that  I  was 
alone." 

Then  very  slowly,  with  great  pains,  and  hardly 
moving,  she  laid  her  thin,  transparently  pale 
hands  palm  to  palm,  with  a  look  of  gentle  entreaty. 
Her  lips  trembled,  and  her  brows  were  raised. 

"Do  not  leave  me!  When  I  die,  do  not  think 
that  I  am  no  more!" 

Her  sister  bent  down.  The  sick  girl  was  too 
weak  to  throw  her  arms  around  her  neck;  she  tried 
to,  and  could  not.  Then  Arsinoe  laid  her  cheek 
near  Myra's  eyes,  and  the  girl  softly  caressed  her 
face  with  her  long,  downy  lashes,  lowering  and 
raising  them,  as  if  she  was  stroking  her.  This  was 
a  habitual  caress  with  them,  invented  by  Myra  in 
her  childhood.  It  felt  as  a  butterfly's  fine,  soft 
wings  were  fluttering  against  her  cheek. 

And  that  last  childish  caress  reminded  Arsinoe 
of  all  their  life  together,  and  all  their  love.  She 
knelt  down,  for  the  first  time  in  many  years  burst- 
ing into  uncontrollable  tears.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  her  heart  melted  and  flowed  in  those  tears. 

"No,  no,  Myra,"  she  said,  "I  will  not  leave  you. 
I  will  be  with  you,  always." 

Myra's  eyes  glistened  joyfully.    She  whispered: 

"it  means  that— you?"  ' 

"Yes,  I  want  to  believe,  and  I  shall!"  exclaimed 


The  Passing  of  Myra.  207 

Arsinoe,  and  was  immediately  astonished  at  these 
unexpected  words;  they  seemed  to  her  a  miracle, 
but  not  a  cheat,  and  she  did  not  wish  to  take  them 
back. 

"I  shall  go  to  the  desert,  Myra,  instead  of  you," 
she  continued  with  an  almost  delirious  burst  of 
love,  "and  if  God  is,  He  must  make  death  cease  to 
exist,  so  that  we  may  be  together  always!" 

Myra  closed  her  eyes,  listening  to  her  sister  with 
a  smile  of  endless  peace,  and  added: 

"Now  I  shall  go  to  sleep.  I  need  nothing  more. 
I  am  well." 

After  that  she  did  not  open  her  eyes,  nor  speak. 
Her  face  seemed  as  peaceful  and  quiet  as  the  faces 
of  the  dead,  but  she  breathed  for  several  days 
more. 

When  they  brought  a  cup  of  wine  to  her  parted 
lips,  she  drank  several  drops. 

If  her  breathing  became  uneven  and  heavy,  Ju- 
ventinus,  bending  down,  sang  some  prayer  or 
church  hymn  in  a  low  voice,  and  then  Myra  began 
to  breathe  softly  and  evenly  again,  as  if  she  had 
"been  lulled  by  a  lullaby. 

One  bright  evening,  when  the  sun  was  turning 
Ischia  and  Capri  into  great  transparent  amethysts, 
when  the  quiet  sea  was  mingled  with  the  sky,  and 
the  first  star  had  not  yet  shone  out,  but  was  only 
divined  in  the  immeasurable  dome,  Juventinus 
softly  sang  the  sweet  evening  hymn  over  the  dying 
girl: 

Oh  God,  that  didst  all  things  create. 
Oh  heavenly  king  that  too  hast  clothed 
The  day  in  light  roost  beautiful, 
The  night  in  sleep  most  bountiful — 


208  Julian  the  Apostate. 

Sleep  to  restore  the  weary  ones, 
And  after  labor  to  give  rest, 
The  fainting  spirit  to  refresh, 
To  drive  away  all  pain  and  fear. 

Perhaps  while  the  words  of  this  triumphant 
hymn  were  still  resounding,  Myra  breathed  her 
last  sigh.  None  noted  when  her  breathing  ceased. 
Death  and  life  were  one  for  her,  because  her  life 
was  mingled  with  the  eternal,  as  the  warmth  of  a 
clear  evening  mingles  with  the  freshness  of  the 
night. 

Arsinoe  buried  her  sister  in  the  ancient  cata- 
combs, and  with  her  own  hands  traced  on  the  mar- 
ble slab  the  words  "Myra,  vivis, — Myra,  thou 
livest!" 

She  hardly  wept  at  all.  In  her  soul  was  a  great 
quietness,  a  contempt  for  the  world,  and  a  decision 
akin  to  despair,  if  she  did  not  believe  in  God,  at 
least  to  do  all  she  could  to  believe  in  Him. 

She  wished  to  distribute  her  wealth  among  the 
poor,  and  go  to  the  desert. 

The  same  day  that  Arsinoe,  to  her  guardian's 
boundless  astonishment  and-  chagrin,  had  in- 
formed Hortensius  of  her  decision,  she  received  a 
brief  and  enigmatic  letter  from  Julian,  from  Gaul: 

"Julian  to  the  most  noble  Arsinoe,  greeting! 

"Do  you  remember  what  we  said,  in  Athens,  be- 
fore the  statue  of  Artemis?  Do  you  remember  our 
alliance?  Great  is  my  hatred;  still  greater  my 
love.  It  may  be  that  the  lion  will  soon  cast  aside 
the  ass's  skin,  and  meanwhile,  let  us  be  harmless  as 
doves,  and  wise  as  serpents,  according  to  the  words 
of  Jesus  of  Nazareth." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 
THE  ARMY  DECLARES  FOR  JULIAN. 

More  than  a  year  had  passed  since  the  battle  of 
Argentoratum.  Julian  had  freed  Gaul  from  the 
barbarians.  Early  in  the  spring,  in  his  winter- 
quarters  in  Lutetia,  the  Caesar  received  an  import- 
ant letter  from  the  emperor,  brought  by  Decentius 
the  tribune  of  the  notarii. 

Every  victory  in  Gaul  had  offended  Constan- 
tius,  as  a  new  blow  to  his  vanity.  That  boy,  that 
"chattering  jay,"  that  "monkey  in  the  purple," 
"the  ridiculous  victorling,"  to  the  disgust  of  the 
court  jesters,  had  turned  into  a  real  menacing 
victor. 

Constantius  burned  with  envy.  At  this  same 
time  he  himself  was  suffering  defeat  after  defeat 
from  the  Persians  in  the  Asiatic  provinces. 

He  grew  thin,  and  lost  his  sleep;  his  appetite 
dwindled,  and  twice  he  had  suffusions  of  bile. 
The  court  physicians  were  in  dismay. 

Sometimes,  during  sleepless  nights  the  emperor 
lay  with  wide-open  eyes  on  his  splendid  couch, 
under  Constantine  the  Great's  sacred  ensign,  the 
Labarum,  and  thought: 

"Eusebia  deceived  me.  But  for  her,  I  would 
have  carried  out  the  wise  counsels  of  Paul  and 
Mereurius  and  smothered  the  boy  somewhere  in  a 
dark  corner,  and  rid  myself  of  this  young  serpent 
of  the  Flavian  nest.  Fool!  I  let  him  slip  through 
my  fingers.  And  who  knows?  perhaps  she  was  his 
mistress. 

209 


210  Julian  the  Apostate. 

Belated  jealousy  made  his  envy  even  more 
fierce.  He  could  not  punish  the  Empress  Eusebia, 
she  had  long  been  in  the  tomb.  His  second  con- 
sort, Faustina,  was  a  pretty,  foolish  girl,  whom  he 


Constantius  clutched  his  thin  hair,  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night, — his  hair  that  was  so  carefully 
curled  every  morning  by  the  hair-dresser,  and 
wept  cold,  bitter  tears. 

Was  it  not  he  who  had  protected  the  Church? 
who  had  striven  to  put  down  every  heresy?  Was 
it  not  he  who  had  founded  and  adorned  cathe- 
drals? Who  every  morning  and  evening  per- 
formed the  ordained  number  of  prostrations? 
And  now  what  reward  had  he?  For  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  the  ruler  of  the  earth  felt  wrath  against 
the  Heavenly  Father.  Bitter  prayers  died  away 
on  his  lips. 

To  allay  his  envy  even  a  little,  he  had  recourse 
to  an  extraordinary  expedient:  through  all  the 
great  cities  were  distributed  so-called  triumphal 
letters,  wreathed  with  laurels,  proclaiming  the  vic- 
tories which  God's  grace  had  vouchsafed  to  Con- 
stantius. These  letters  were  read  in  the  squares. 
In  them  it  was  declared  that  it  was  not  Julian  who 
had  four  times  crossed  the  Rhine,  but  Constantius, 
who  in  reality  had  been  losing  armies  at  the  other 
end  of  the  world  at  that  very  time;  that  it  was  not 
Julian  who  had  been  surrounded  with  clouds  of 
arrows,  at  Argentoratum,  but  Constantius;  that 
not  Julian,  but  Constantius  was  wounded;  that  it 
was  not  Julian  who  had  passed  through  morasses 
and  gloomy  forests,  cutting  roads,  besieging  for- 
tresses, enduring  hunger,  thirst  and  heat,  toiling 
more  and  sleeping  less  than  the  simple  soldiers, 


The  Army  Declares  for  Julian.       211 

but  again  Constantius.  Julian's  name  was  not 
even  mentioned  in  the  bay-wreathed  letters,  as  if 
the  Caesar  had  not  existed  at  all.  The  people 
hailed  Constantius  as  the  conqueror  of  Gaul,  and 
in  all  the  churches,  the  presbyters,  bishops  and 
patriarchs  offered  up  solemn  prayers,  asking  long 
life  for  the  emperor,  and  thanking  God  for  the 
victories  over  the  barbarians  vouchsafed  to  Con- 
stantius. 

When  Julian  heard  of  this,  he  answered  his 
enemy  with  a  quiet  smile. 

But  the  envy  which  gnawed  the  emperor's  heart 
was  not  assuaged.  He  planned  to  take  away  from 
Julian  the  flower  of  his  best  legions,  imperceptibly 
and  gradually,  to  weaken  him  as  he  had  formerly 
weakened  Gallus;  to  draw  him  gently  within  his 
nets,  and  then  to  strike  a  final  blow  at  him,  when 
he  was  unarmed. 

With  this  end  in  view,  a  skilful  official,  Decen- 
tius,  the  tribune  of  the  notaries,  was  sent  to  Lute- 
tia,  with  a  letter:  he  was  to  lose  no  time  in 
drafting  all  the  best  and  most  efficient  troops 
out  of  Julian's  army, — the  Heruli,  the  Batavians, 
the  Petulantes,  and  the  Celts,  and  sending  them 
to  Asia  to  the  emperor.  Besides  this,  the  official 
was  commissioned  to  choose  up  to  three  hundred 
of  the  bravest  men  in  each  legion,  and  Sintula, 
the  Caesarean  tribune  of  the  horse,  received  orders 
to  unite  soldiers,  selected  from  the  shield-bearers 
and  gentiles,  to  stand  at  their  head,  and  lead  them 
to  the  East  to  the  emperor. 

Julian  warned  Decentius,  pointing  out  the  im- 
mediate danger  of  revolt  among  the  barbarian 
legions,  who  would  sooner  consent  to  die  than  to 
leave  their  native  land.  The  stubborn  official  paid 


21^  Julian  tlie  Apostate. 

no  attention  to  the  warning,  retaining  an  imper- 
turbable departmental  haughtiness  on  his  shaven 
and  cunning  face. 

Near  one  of  the  old  bridges,  uniting  the  island 
of  Lutetia  with  the  bank,  was  extended  the  long 
row  of  barracks. 

Since  morning,  the  soldiers  had  been  in  a  state 
of  disquiet.  Only  the  strict  and  wise  discipline 
introduced  by  Julian  restrained  them. 

The  first  cohorts  of  Petulantes  and  Heruli  set 
out  at  nightfall.  Their  brothers,  the  Celts  and 
Batavians,  were  getting  ready  to  march.  Sintula 
gave  his  orders  in  a  confident  voice.  Murmurs 
were  heard.  One  insubordinate  soldier  had  already 
been  whipped  with  rods  till  he  was  half  dead. 
Decentius  bustled  about  everywhere. 

In  the  courtyard,  and  on  the  road,  under  the 
dusky  evening  sky,  stood  canvas-covered  wagons 
with  huge  wheels,  for  the  soldiers'  wives  and  chil- 
dren. The  women  added  their  voices,  bidding 
farewell  to  their  native  land;  others  stretched 
forth  their  hands  to  the  dreamy  forests  and  wild 
ravines  on  the  horizon;  others  fell  on  the  earth 
and  kissed  it  with  sad  cries,  calling  it  their  mother, 
and  lamenting  that  their  bones  would  rot  in  for- 
eign lands.  Some  of  them  tied  a  handful  of  earth 
in  a  cloth,  as  a  memento,  in  silent  grief.  A  lean 
dog,  with  ribs  that  stuck  out  from  thinness,  was 
licking  the  axle  of  the  wagon,  smeared  with  tallow; 
suddenly  going  to  a  little  distance,  and  burying 
its  muzzle  in  the  dust,  it  began  to  howl.  All 
turned  and  shuddered.  A  legionary  kicked  it 
angrily.  With  its  tail  between  its  legs,  the  dog 
ran  away  yelping  into  the  plain,  and  then  stopped, 
and  howled  louder  and  more  lugubriously  than 


The  Army  Declares  for  Julian.       213 

before.  And  that  prolonged  wail  was  terrible,  in 
the  close  stillness  of  the  dusky  evening. 

The  Sarmatian  Aragarius  belonged  to  the  num- 
ber of  those  who  were  to  leave  the  north.  He  was 
bidding  farewell  to  his  faithful  comrade  Strom- 
bicus. 

"Uncle,  dear,  what  are  you  leaving  me  for?" 
sobbed  Strombicus,  eating  his  military  broth: 
Aragarius  had  given  it  up  to  him,  for  he  could  not 
swallow  a  single  mouthful  from  grief.  Strom- 
bicus' tears  fell  into  the  soup,  but  still  he  ate  with 
pleasure. 

"Well,  well,  shut  up,  you  fool!"  said  Aragarius, 
consolingly  scolding  him  as  was  his  wont,  con- 
temptuously, and  at  the  same  time  kindly.  "There 
is  enough  woman's  howling,  without  you.  Better 
tell  me  plainly, — you  come  from  those  parts, — 
what  sort  of  forest  is  there  in  those  parts,  is  there 
more  oak  or  birch?" 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  uncle?  Lord  help 
you!  There  is  no  forest  there,  only  sand  and 
stones." 

"And  what  do  people  shelter  from  the  sun 
under?"  objected  Aragarius,  distrustfully. 

"In  one  word,  it  is  a  desert,  as  hot,  you  may  say, 
as  if  you  were  on  the  kitchen  hearth.  And  there 
is  no  water." 

"How,  no  water?  but  there  is  beer?" 

"How  should  there  be  beer?  they  never  heard 
of  beer." 

"You  are  a  liar!" 

"May  my  eyes  burst,  uncle,  if  throughout  the 
whole  of  Asia,  Mesopotamia,  and  Syria,  you  could 
find  a  single  keg  of  beer  or  mead." 

"Well,  brother,  that's  bad  enough.     Hot  as  an 


214  Julian  the  Apostate. 

oven,  and  no  water,  no  beer,  and  no  mead.  They 
are  driving  us  off  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  like 
oxen  to  the  slaughter." 

"To  the  devil's  horn,  uncle;  right  to  the  devil's 
horn." 

And  Strombicus  sobbed  still  more  pitiably. 

At  this  moment  was  heard  the  distant  hum  and 
murmur  of  voices.  The  two  friends  ran  out  of 
the  barracks.  A  crowd  of  soldiers  came  running 
across  the  wooden  bridge,  to  the  island  of  Lutetia. 
The  cries  came  nearer.  The  disorder  spread  to 
the  barracks.  The  soldiers  came  out  to  the  cause- 
way, gathered  in  knots,  and  shouted,  in  spite  of 
the  orders,  threats,  and  even  blows  of  the  cen- 
turions. 

"What  has  happened?"  asked  a  veteran  who  was 
bringing  a  bundle  of  brushwood  to  the  barrack 
kitchen. 

"They  say  they  have  flogged  twenty  more  men." 

"Twenty? — you  mean  a  hundred." 

"They  will  all  be  flogged  in  turn.  That  is  the 
order." 

Suddenly  a  soldier  in  a  torn  garment,  with  a 
wild  distraught  face,  ran  in  amongst  the  crowd, 
shouting: 

"Brothers,  run,  run  to  the  palace!  They  have 
murdered  Julian." 

These  words  fell  like  a  spark  on  dry  straw.  The 
long-smoldering  flame  burst  out  uncontrollably. 
Faces  became  savage,  like  wild  beasts.  No  one 
listened  to  anything;  no  one  heard  anything.  All 
shouted  at  once: 

"Where  are  the  villains?" 

"Beat  the  rascals!" 

"Who  is  to  be  beaten?" 


The  Army  Declares  for  Julian.       215 

"The  emperor's  messengers."     . 

"Down  with  the  emperor!" 

"Oh  you  calves!  what  a  leader  they  have  given 
us!" 

They  knocked  down  the  two  first  centurions 
they  came  upon,  and  who  were  wholly  innocent, 
kicking  them,  and  ready -to  tear  them  in  pieces. 
Blood  flowed,  and  at  the  sight  of  it  the  soldiers 
grew  still  more  furious. 

The  crowd,  thronging  across  the  bridge,  ap- 
proached the  barrack  building,  and  suddenly  a 
deafening  cry  rose  clear  above  everything. 

"Long  live  the  Emperor  Julian.  Long  live 
Julian  Augustus!" 

"They  have  slain  him!" 

"Silence,  you  fool!    I  have  just  seen  him." 

"The  Caesar  is  alive?" 

"He  is  not  the  Caesar,  he  is  emperor!" 

"Who  said  they  had  killed  him?" 

"Where  is  the  knave?" 

"They  tried  to  kill  him!" 

"Who  tried?" 

"Constantius!" 

"Down  with  Constantius!  Down  with  the 
damned  eunuchs!" 

Someone  on  horseback  hurried  through  the 
gloom  so  speedily  that  they  hardly  had  time  to 
recognize  him. 

"Decentius!     Decentius!     Stop  the  villain!" 

Decentius  disappeared,  accompanied  by  jeering 
and  shouts.  The  crowd  increased.  In  the  darkness 
of  evening,  the  mutinous  army  swayed  and  seethed 
menacingly.  Anger  alternated  with  childish  de- 
light, when  they  saw  that  the  legions  of  Heruli 
and  Petulantes,  who  had  been  sent  off  in  the  morn- 


216  Julian  the  Apostate. 

ing,  were  coming  back,  having  also  mutined. 
Many  embraced  their  fellow-countrymen,  their 
wives  and  children,  as  if  after  a  long  separation. 
Others  wept  for  joy.  Others  shouted,  and  struck 
their  swords  against  their  shields.  The  camp-fires 
were  lit.  Orators  appeared.  Strombicus,  who  had 
been  a  circus  clown  in  his  youth  in  Antioch,  felt 
a  stream  of  inspiration.  His  comrades  lifted  him 
on  their  shoulders,  and  with  a  theatrical  gesture, 
he  began:  "Nos  quidem  ad  orbis  terrarum  ex- 
trema  ut  noxii  pellimur  aut  damnati, — They  are 
sending  us  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  like  men  con- 
demned, and  evil-doers.  Our  families  whom  we 
have  redeemed  from  slavery  at  the  cost  of  our 
blood,  will  fall  anew  under  the  Alamans!" 

He  had  not  time  to  finish,  when  a  piercing 
sound,  like  the  cry  of  a  slaughtered  pig,  was 
heard  issuing  from  the  barracks,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  the  familiar  sound  of  the  rod  on  a  naked 
body.  The  soldiers  were  flogging  the  detested 
centurion,  "Cede-Alteram."  A  soldier,  beating  his 
superior,  thew  away  a  blood-stained  rod,  and 
amidst  the  general  laughter,  cried  out  "Cede- 
Alteram," — Give  me  another! — mimicking  the 
centurion's  voice. 

"To  the  palace!  to  the  palace!"  cried  the  crowd, 
"let  us  proclaim  Julian  Augustus,  let  us  crown 
him  with  the  diadem!" 

They  all  rushed  forth,  throwing  the  half-dead 
centurion  into  the  courtyard,  where  he  lay  in  a 
pool  of  blood. 

The  gates,  doors  and  shutters  of  the  palace  were 
closely  fastened.  The  building  seemed  unin- 
habited. 

Foreseeing  a  mutiny,  Julian  had  not  gone  out, 


The  Army  Declares  for  Julian.       217 

and  had  abstained  from,  appearing  to  the  soldiers. 
He  had  been  casting  lots,  and  seeking  omens.  For 
two  days  and  nights,  he  had  been  waiting  for  a 
sign.  In  the  long  white  robe  of  the  Pythagoreans, 
he  was  ascending  the  narrow  stairs  to  the  highest 
tower  of  the  palace,  with  a  lamp  in  his  hands.  A 
Persian  magician  was  standing  there  already,  an 
assistant  of  Maximus  of  Ephesus, — the  same 
Nogodares  who  once  foretold  Scudilo  the  tribune's 
fortune,  in  the  tavern  of  Syrophenix,  at  the  foot 
of  the  Argian  hills. 

"Well?"  asked  Julian,  hesitatingly,  gazing  at 
the  dark  vault  of  heaven. 

"I  can  see  nothing,"  answered  Nogodares,  "the 
clouds  prevent  me." 

Julian  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"Not  a  single  sign!  As  if  the  heavens  and  earth 
were  in  league  together." 

A  bat  fluttered  past. 

"Watch,  watch,  perhaps  you  can  tell  something 
from  its  flight." 

It  almost  touched  Julian's  face,  with  its  cold, 
mysterious  wings,  and  disappeared. 

"'The  soul  of  someone  near  to  you,"  murmured 
Xogodares.  "Remember,  to-night  a  mighty  event 
is  to  take  place." 

They  heard  the  indistinct  cries  of  the  soldiers. 
The  wind  carried  them  away. 

"If  you  learn  anything,  come  to  me,"  said 
Julian,  and  descended  to  the  library.  He  began 
to  walk  up  and  down  through  the  huge  room, 
from  corner  to  corner,  with  quick,  uneven  steps. 
Sometimes  he  stopped  to  listen.  He  imagined 
that  someone  was  following  him,  and  a  strange, 
supernatural  cold  blew  down  hie  neck,  in  the  dark- 


218  Julian  the  Apostate. 

ness.  He  turned  quickly, — there  was  no  one. 
Only  the  heavily-throbbing  blood  pulsed  in  his 
temples.  He  began  to  walk  up  and  down  again, 
and  again  it  seemed  to  him  that  someone  was 
whispering  words  which  he  had  not  time  to  catch, 
in  his  ear. 

A  servant  came  to  announce  that  an  old  man 
who  had  come  from  Athens  on  very  important 
business  wished  to  see  him.  Julian,  crying  out 
with  joy,  hastened  to  meet  him,  hoping  that  it  was 
Maximus.  It  was  the  grand  hierophant  of  the 
Eleusinian  mysteries,  whom  also  he  was  expecting 
with  the  utmost  impatience. 

"Father,"  he  cried,  "save  me!  I  must  know  the 
will  of  the  gods.  Come  quick!" 

At  that  moment,  the  deafening  cries  of  the 
mutinous  army  rang  through  the  palace.  The  old 
brick  walls  trembled. 

A  tribune  of  the  household  shield-bearers  ran 
in,  pale  with  terror: 

"Mutiny!    The  soldiers  are  breaking  the  doors!" 

Julian  gave  a  sign  of  command  with  his  hand. 

"Do  not  fear!  Later,  later — let  no  one  come  to 
me." 

And  seizing  the  Eleusinian  hierophant  by  the 
hand,  he  dragged  him  into  a  dark  vault,  and  shut 
the  heavy,  iron  door  after  him. 

Everything  was  ready  in  the  vault.  The  flames 
of  the  torches  were  reflected  on  a  silver  image  of 
Helios-Mithra,  the  sun-god.  The  censers  and 
sacred  vessels  of  water  were  standing  beside  it,  and 
also  vessels  of  wine  and  honey,  for  the  oblation, 
with  flour  and  salt,  to  sprinkle  on  the  victims.  In 
cages  were  different  birds,  for  the  auguries,  ducks, 


The  Army  Declares  for  Julian.       219 

doves,  fowls,  geese,  even  an  eagle,  and  a  little 
white  lamb,  tied,  and  bleating  pitifully. 

"Quicker,  quicker!  I  must  know  the  will  of  the 
gods,"  Julian  hurried  the  hierophant,  giving  him 
a  sharp-edged  knife. 

The  old  man,  breathing  heavily,  rapidly  pro- 
nounced the  necessary  prayers,  and  performed  the 
libations. 

He  transfixed  the  lamb,  and  laid  a  part  of  the 
flesh  and  fat  on  the  embers  of  the  altar,  with  mys- 
tic incantations,  and  began  to  examine  the  en- 
trails. He  drew  forth  the  bleeding  liver,  heart 
and  lungs  with  skilful  hands,  and  examined  them 
on  all  sides. 

"There  will  be  a  mighty  downfall,  and  a  terrible 
death,"  said  the  hierophant,  pointing  to  the  lamb's 
still  warm  heart. 

"Who?  who  is  it?    I  or  he?"  asked  Julian. 

"I  know  not." 

"You  do  not  know?" 

"Caesar,"  said  the  old  man,  "  do  not  hurry!  Do 
not  decide  on  anything  to-night.  Wait  till  morn- 
ing. The  forecasts  are  doubtful — even — " 

He  did  not  finish,  and  took  other  victims,  first 
the  goose,  and  then  the  eagle.  The  noise  of  the 
crowd  resounded  overhead,  like  the  roar  of  an  in- 
undation. Blows  of  a  lever  rang  on  the  iron  gates. 
Julian  heard  nothing.  He  watched  the  bleeding 
entrails  with  hungry  curiosity.  They  decided  to 
test  the  secrets  of  the  gods,  with  the  gizzard  of  the 
chicken.  The  old  priest  killed  it;  then  shook  his 
head  and  said: 

"Decide  on  nothing  to-night.  The  gods  are 
silent." 


220  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"What  does  that  mean?"  cried  Julian,  angrily; 
"they  have  chosen  a  fit  time  to  keep  silent!" 

Nogodares  entered,  with  a  look  of  triumph: 

"Julian,  rejoice!  This  night  will  decide  your 
fate!  Hasten,  otherwise  it  will  be  too  late!" 

The  magian  looked  at  the  hierophant;  the 
hierophant,  at  the  magian. 

"Wait!"  pronounced  the  Eleusinian  priest,  knit- 
ting his  brows. 

"Dare!"  said  Nogodares. 

Julian  stood  between  them  in  uncertainty,  look- 
ing first  at  the  one,  then  at  the  other.  The  faces 
of  both  augurs  were  impenetrable.  They  were  evi- 
dently jealous  of  each  other. 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  whispered  Julian.  Sud- 
denly he  remembered  something,  and  his  face 
cleared.  "Wait,  I  have  an  ancient  Sibylline  book 
in  the  library,  "On  Contradictions  in  the  Augu- 
ries." We  shall  come  to  a  decision." 

He  ran  up  to  the  library  and  began  to  search 
among  the  dusty  rolls.  Suddenly  it  seemed  to 
him  that  someone's  voice  whispered  clearly  in  his 
ear:  "Dare!  dare!  dare!" 

"Maximus!  is  that  you?"  cried  Julian,  and 
turned. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  dark  room.  His  heart 
beat  so  rapidly  that  he  pressed  his  hand  against  it. 
A  cold  sweat  stood  on  his  brow. 

"That  is  what  I  was  waiting  for,"  murmured 
Julian,  "that  was  His  voice.  All  is  finished  now. 
I  go!" 

The  iron  gates  fell  down  with  a  deafening  noise. 
The  soldiers  broke  into  the  atrium  of  the  building. 
The  walls  of  the  palace  trembled  under  their 
cries.  The  red  light  of  the  torches  flickered 


The  Army  Declares  for  Julian.       221 

through  the  boards  of  the  shutters,  like  the  red- 
ness of  dawn.  It  was  impossible  to  wait,  even  for 
a  moment.  Julian  cast  aside  his  Pythagorean 
gown,  and  put  on  his  armor,  the  Caesar's  paluda- 
inentum,  and  his  helmet,  and  buckling  on  his 
sword,  he  hurried  down  the  great  staircase  to  the 
entrance  doors.  He  nung  them  open,  and  ap- 
peared before  the  army  with  a  majestic  and  quiet 
face.  All  his  doubts  had  vanished.  His  will  did 
not  hesitate  in  action.  He  had  never  in  his  life 
felt  such  an  inner  force,  such  lucidity  of  spirit 
and  self-mastery.  The  crowd  felt  that  instantly. 
His  pale  face  looked  kinglike  and  terrible.  He 
made  a  sign  with  his  hand.  All  became  silent. 

Julian  spoke:  he  persuaded  the  soldiers  to  be- 
come quiet,  assuring  them  that  he  would  not 
desert  them,  nor  allow  them  to  be  carried  away  to 
foreign  lands.  He  would  beg  his  worthy  cousin 
Constantius — >: 

"Down  with  Constantius!"  the  soldiers  inter- 
rupted him  in  friendly  shouts,  ''down  with  the 
fratricide!  You  are  emperor,  glory  to  Julian 
Augustus,  the  Unconquerable!" 

He  artfully  played  the  role  of  a  man  who  is 
astonished,  even  frightened.  He  cast  his  eyes 
down,  turned  his  face  aside,  and  held  forth  his 
hands,  with  outstretched  palms,  as  if  pushing 
away  the  culpable  gift,  and  defending  himself 
from  it.  The  cries  redoubled. 

''What  are  you  doing?"  cried  Julian,  with 
feigned  terror,  "do  not  ruin  yourselves  and  me. 
Can  you  think  that  I  would  betray  the  noble  em- 
peror?" 

"The  murderer  of  your  father!  the  murderer  of 
Gallus!"  cried  the  soldiers. 


222  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"Be  silent!  Be  silent!"  He  waved  his  hand 
toward  them,  and  descended  the  steps  of  the  stair, 
among  the  crowd.  "Do  you  not  know?  We  swore 
before  the  face  of  God  himself/' 

Julian's  every  movement  was  crafty  and  pro- 
found acting.  The  soldiers  surrounded  him.  He 
drew  his  sword  from  its  sheath,  raised  it,  and 
pointed  it  against  his  own  breast: 

"Valiant  men!  Better  that  the  Caesar  should 
die  than  betray." 

They  caught  him  by  the  arm,  and  took  the 
sword  away  by  force.  Many  fell  at  his  feet,  em- 
bracing them  with  tears,  and  pressed  their  sharp 
sword-points  against  their  own  breasts. 

"We  will  die!"  they  cried,  "we  will  die  for  you!" 

Others  stretched  out  their  hands  to  him,  with 
pitiful  cries: 

"Have  mercy  on  us!  Father,  have  mercy  on 
us!" 

Grey  veterans  fell  on  their  knees,  seizing  the 
leader's  hands  as  if  to  kiss  them,  and  placed  his 
fingers  in  their  mouths,  making  him  feel  their 
toothless  gums.  They  spoke  of  the  untold  toils, 
the  intolerable  hardships  they  had  endured  during 
their  long  military  service.  Many  stripped  off 
their  garments,  and  showed  him  their  naked  old 
bodies,  their  backs  with  terrible  weals  from  the 
rods  of  the  centurions,  and  their  wounds. 

"Have  pity  on  us!    Be  our  emperor!" 

Julian's  heart  was  moved.  He  loved  those  rude 
faces,  the  familiar  air  of  the  barracks,  the  general 
riotous  ecstasy,  in  which  he  felt  his  own  force.  He 
noted  that  the  mutiny  was  dangerous,  by  the  fol- 
lowing sign:  the  soldiers  did  not  interrupt  eacli 
other,  but  cried  all  at  once,  as  if  they  had  agreed 


The  Army  Declares  for  Julian.       223 

beforehand,  and  then  they  grew  silent,  with  the 
same  friendly  unanimity.  Now  a  deafening  cry 
arose,  now  perfect  stillness  followed  it. 

Finally  Julian,  as  if  unwillingly,  as  if  overcome 
by  force,  spoke  in  a  low  voice: 

"Children!  Beloved  companions!  You  see  that 
I  am  yours  in  life  and  death.  I  can  refuse  you 
nothing." 

"Crown  him.  Crown  him  with  a  diadem!"  they 
cried  triumphantly. 

"Let  Augustus  order  a  pearl  necklace  to  be 
brought!" 

Julian  objected  that  a  woman's  adornment  was 
unbecoming,  and  would  be  a  bad  augury  for  the 
beginning  of  his  rule. 

The  soldiers  would  not  yield.  They  were  deter- 
mined to  see  the  bright  sign  of  royalty  on  the  brow 
of  their  elect,  to  feel  sure  that  he  was  emperor. 

A  coarse  legionary  tore  the  breast-piece  of 
bronze  off  a  war  horse,  the  "falera,"  as  it  was 
called,  and  proffered  it  to  Julian. 

This  was  displeasing  to  the  soldiers.  It  smelt 
of  horse's  sweat,  from  the  leather  of  the  breast- 
piece. 

All  began  impatiently  to  seek  for  another  deco- 
ration. Then  the  standard-bearer  of  the  legion  of 
the  Petulantes,  the  Sarmatian  Aragarius,  took  a 
bronze  chain  from  his  neck, — the  sign  of  his  rank. 
Julian  twisted  it  twice  around  his  head.  That 
chain  made  him  Koman  emperor. 

"On  the  shield!  On  the  shield!"  cried  the  sol- 
diers. 

Aragarius  handed  him  a  round  shield,  and  hun- 
dreds of  hands  raised  the  emperor  in  the  air.  He 


224  Julian  the  Apostate. 

saw  a  sea  of  heads  in  bronze  helmets,  and  heard 
triumphant  thundering  shouts: 

"Long  live  Julian,  the  godlike  Augustus!" 

It  seemed  to  him  that  the  will  of  destiny  was 
being  accomplished. 

The  torches  nickered.  Streaks  of  white  ap- 
peared on  the  horizon.  The  clumsy  brick  towers 
of  the  palace  stood  out  black  and  grim. 

With  the  dawn,  the  worn-out  soldiers  dispersed, 
and  Julian  withdrew  into  the  palace. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 
THE  DEATH  OF  CONSTANTIUS. 

The  Emperor  Constantius  had  passed  sad  days 
in  Antioch.  All  were  expecting  evil. 

By  night,  he  dreamed  terrible  dreams;  in  his 
bedchamber,  six  lamps  burned  until  dawn,  yet  he 
still  feared  the  darkness.  Long  hours  he  sat  alone, 
in  motionless  meditation,  turning  and  trembling 
at  the  slightest  noise. 

Once  he  dreamed  of  his  father,  Constantine  the 
Great,  who  held  a  child  in  his  hands,  strong  and 
menacing.  Constantius,  taking  the  child  from 
'him,  set  it  at  his  right  hand,  trying  to  hold  up  a 
great  ball  of  crystal  with  his  left.  The  evil  child 
struck  the  sphere,  so  that  it  fell  and  broke,  and 
the  needle-like  fragments  of  the  glass  pierced  Con- 
stantius, with  intolerable  pain,  —  his  body,  his 
brain,  his  eyes,  his  heart;  flashing,  ringing,  pier- 
cing and  burning. 

The  emperor  woke  in  terror,  bathed  in  cold 
sweat. 


The  Death  of  Coiistantius.  225 

He  began  to  take  counsel  with,  soothsayers,  fa- 
mous wizards,  and  interpreters  of  dreams. 

In  Antioch,  an  army  was  assembled,  and  prep- 
arations were  being  made  for  an  expedition  against 
Julian.  Sometimes  the  emperor  was  overcome  by 
a  thirst  for  action  after  a  long  period  of  immo- 
bility. Many  courtiers  held  his  haste  to  be  irra- 
tional. In  whispers,  they  confided  to  each  other 
rumors  of  the  emperor's  doubtful  mental  condi- 
tion. 

It  was  late  autumn  when  he  left  Antioch. 

At  midday  on  the  road  at  three  thousand  paces 
from  the  city,  close  to  a  village  called  Hippocepha- 
lus,  the  emperor  saw  the  shapeless  corpse  of  an  un- 
known man.  The  body,  turned  towards  the  west, 
lay  on  the  right  hand  of  Constantius,  who  was  on 
horseback;  the  head  was  separated  from  the  trunk. 
He  turned  pale,  and  looked  away.  None  of  those 
who  were  near  him  said  anything,  but  all  knew 
that  it  was  an  evil  omen. 

In  the  city  of  Cilician  Tarsus,  he  felt  a  slight 
chill  and  weakness,  but  paid  no  attention  to  it,  and 
did  not  even  take  counsel  of  his  physicians,  hoping 
that  riding  along  the  rough  mountain  road,  in  the 
heat  of  the  sun,  would  make  him  perspire  and  do 
him  good. 

He  directed  his  course  to  a  small  town,  Mopsy- 
crene,  at  the  foot  of  the  Taurus  mountains,  the 
last  stage  before  leaving  Cilicia. 

While  on  the  road,  he  had  several  times  had 
severe  fits  of  dizziness:  finally  he  had  to  dismount 
and  get  into  a  litter.  Later  on,  the  eunuch  Euse- 
bius  related  that  while  lying  in  the  litter  the  em- 
peror drew  forth  from  under  his  cloak  a  precious 


226  Julian  the  Apostate. 

stone,  with  the  profile  of  the  Empress  Eusebius 
Aurelia,  and  kissed  it  tenderly. 

At  one  of  the  cross-roads  he  asked  whither  the 
other  road  went,  and  they  answered  him  that  it 
was  the  road  to  Macellum,  the  deserted  palace  of 
the  Cappadocian  kings. 

At  this  name  Constantius'  face  grew  gloomy. 

They  arrived  at  Mopsycrene  in  the  evening.  He 
was  worn  out  and  silent. 

He  had  just  entered  the  room  prepared  for  him, 
when  one  of  the  courtiers  uncautiously,  and  in 
spite  of  the  prohibition  of  Eusebius,  informed  him 
that  two  couriers  from  the  western  provinces 
awaited  the  emperor. 

Constantius  ordered  to  have  them  brought  in. 

Eusebius  begged  him  to  put  the  matter  off  till 
the  morning.  But  the  emperor  said  that  he  felt 
much  better,  that  the  chill  had  left  him,  and  that 
he  felt  only  a  light  pain  in  his  elbow. 

They  admitted  the  first  messenger.  He  was 
trembling  and  pale. 

"Speak  at  once!"  exclaimed  Constantius,  fright- 
ened by  the  expression  of  his  face. 

The  courier  told  of  the  insolence  of  Julian;  the 
Caesar  had  torn  the  emperor's  letter  in  pieces  be- 
fore the  army.  Gaul,  Pannonia,  Aquitania,  had 
gone  over  to  Julian.  Traitors  turned  against  Con- 
stantius in  all  the  legions,  stationed  in  these  coun- 
tries. 

The  emperor,  his  face  livid  with  anger,  sprang 
on  the  courier,  and  seized  him  by  the  throat: 

"You  lie,  knave,  you  lie!  There  is  a  God  in 
heaven,  the  protector  of  the  kings  of  the  earth. 
The  Lord  of  Heaven  will  not  allow,  hear  all  ye 
fools,  will  not  allow." 


The  Death  of  Constantius.  227 

Suddenly  he  grew  faint,  and  covered  his  eyes 
with  his  hands.  The  courier,  half  dead  with 
fright,  managed  to  slip  out  of  the  room. 

"To-morrow,"  muttered  Constantius,  indis- 
tinctly and  disconnectedly,  "to-morrow,  on  the 
march,  straight  across  the  mountains,  by  forced 
marches,  to  Constantinople!" 

Eusebius  approached  him,  bowing  servilely: 

"Oh  blessed  Augustus,  the  Lord  God  ever  gave 
you  the  power  to  set  your  enemies  at  naught;  you 
conquered  the  rebellious  and  foolish  Maxentius, 
Constans,  Vetranion,  Gallus.  You  will  conquer 
also  the  enemy  of  God." 

But  Constantius  was  not  listening;  he  muttered, 
shaking  his  head  with  a  meaningless  smile: 

"It  means  that  He  does  not  exist.  If  all  this  is 
true,  it  means  that  he  is  not;  I  am  alone.  Let  any 
one  dare  to  say  He  is,  when  such  things  are  done 
upon  earth.  I  have  thought  that  for  a  long  time, 
now/' 

lie  turned  towards  them  all,  with  inquiring  eyes, 
and  said: 

"Call  the  other." 

The  physician,  a  court  dandy,  with  a  shaven  and 
impudent  rosy  face  and  cold  lynx-eyes,  a  Jew,  pre- 
tending to  be  a  Roman  aristocrat,  approached  him: 
he  observed  to  the  emperor,  in  servile  tones,  that 
excessive  emotion  might  be  dangerous  to  him,  that 
rest  was  indispensable.  Constantius  only  waved 
him  aside,  like  a  troublesome  fly. 

They  brought  in  the  other  messenger.  He  was 
Sintula,  a  tribune  of  the  Cesar's  stables,  who  had 
fled  from  Lutetia.  He  brought  still  more  fearful 
news:  the  gates  of  the  city  of  Sirmium  had  been 
opened  before  Julian,  and  its  inhabitants  had  joy- 


228  Julian  the  Apostate. 

fully  welcomed  him,  as  the  savior  of  the  father- 
land. In  two  days,  they  were  to  set  out  on  the 
great  Koman  road  for  Constantinople. 

The  emperor  seemed  not  to  hear  the  courier's 
last  words.  But  his  face  became  strangely  set.  He 
made  a  sign  that  all  should  go  away.  Eusebius, 
with  whom  he  wished  to  discuss  matters,  remained. 

After  a  short  time,  feeling  weary,  he  ordered 
them  to  carry  him  to  the  bed-chamber,  and  took 
several  steps  towards  it.  Suddenly  a  low  groan 
broke  from  his  lips.  He  raised  both  hands  to  his 
neck,  as  if  he  felt  a  strong  momentary  pain,  and 
staggered.  The  court  attendants  had  just  time  to 
catch  him. 

The  emperor  had  evidently  not  lost  conscious- 
ness. From  his  face,  from  all  his  movements,  from 
the  veins  which  stood  out  on  his  forehead,  it  was 
clear  that  he  was  making  enormous  efforts  to 
speak.  Finally,  he  slowly  uttered  these  words, 
every  one  of  which  seemed  to  choke  him,  in  a 
half -audible  whisper: 

"I  wish  to  speak — but — I — cannot." 

These  were  his  last  words.  His  speech  failed 
him.  A  paralytic  stroke  had  deadened  all  the 
right  side  of  his  body.  His  right  arm  and  leg 
hung  motionless. 

They  laid  him  on  the  bed. 

In  his  eyes  was  anxiety,  and  an  obstinate,  recur- 
ring thought.  He  made  efforts  to  say  something, 
to  give  some  important  order,  perhaps,  but  only 
indistinct  sounds  came  from  his  lips,  like  a  weak, 
unbroken  mewing.  No  one  could  understand  what 
he  wished,  and  the  sick  man  turned  his  eyes  be- 
seechingly on  all  in  turn.  The  eunuchs,  courtiers, 
generals  and  slaves  crowded  round  the  dying  man, 


The  Death  of  Constantius.  2291 

wishing  to  serve  him  for  the  last  time,  but  not 
knowing  how. 

At  times  anger  flashed  into  his  intelligent^ 
steady  eyes:  then  the  mewing  seemed  angry. 

Finally  Eusebius  guessed,  and  brought  him  his 
writing  tablet.  Joy  shone  in  the  emperor's  face; 
he  seized  the  bronze  stylus  firmly,  but  awkwardly 
in  his  left  hand,  like  a  little  child.  After  long 
efforts  he  succeeded  in  making  certain  scribbles  on 
the  soft  surface  of  the  yellow  wax.  The  courtiers 
with  difficulty  read  the  word:  "Baptise." 

He  bent  a  beseeching  glance  on  Eusebius.  All 
were  astonished  that  they  had  not  understood 
sooner.  The  emperor  wished  to  be  christened  be- 
fore his  death,  as,  following  the  example  of  his 
father,  Constantino,  he  had  put  off  the  great  mys- 
tery to  the  last  moment,  believing  that  it  would 
miraculously  cleanse  his  soul  from  all  sin,  and 
"wash  it  whiter  than  snow." 

They  ran  to  bring  a  bishop.  It  turned  out  that 
there  was  no  bishop  in  Mopsycrene.  They  sent  for 
the  Aryan  presbyter  of  the  poor  city  basilica.  He 
was  a  very  shy,  insignificant  person,  with  a  bird- 
like  face,  a  sharp  red  nose,  like  a  beak,  and  a  goat's 
beard,  with  provincial  manners.  When  they  came 
for  him,  Father  Nymphidianus  was  beginning  his 
tenth  cup  of  cheap  red  wine,  and  seemed  over 
merry.  They  could  not  explain  to  him  at  all  what 
the  matter  was;  he  grew  angry,  thinking  that  they 
were  laughing  at  him.  But  when  they  convinced 
him  that  he  was  to  baptize  the  emperor,  he  almost 
lost  his  reason. 

The  presbyter  entered  the  sick  man's  room.  The 
emperor  looked  up  at  the  pale,  bewildered  and 
trembling  Father  Nymphidianus  with  a  glad  hum- 


230  Julian  the  Apostate. 

Me  glance,  such  as  he  had  never  turned  on  a 
human  being  in  all  his  life.  They  understood  that 
he  was  afraid  of  dying,  and  wished  to  hasten  the 
rite. 

Throughout  the  city,  they  sought  a  gold  font, 
or  at  least  a  silver  one,  but  could  not  find  one.  It 
is  true  that  there  was  a  splendid  vase,  with  pre- 
cious stones,  but  it  was  believed  to  have  served  in 
the  Bacchic  mysteries  of  the  god  Dionysus.  They 
preferred  an  old,  bronze  font,  which  was  undoubt- 
edly Christian,  with  coarse,  bent  edges. 

They  brought  the  font  close  to  the  bed.  They 
poured  warm  water  into  it,  and  the  Hebrew  physi- 
cian wished  to  try  it  with  his  hand.  The  emperor 
made  an  angry  movement,  and  mewed:  he  feared 
that  the  Jew's  touch  would  pollute  the  water. 

They  stripped  the  dying  man  of  his  lower  tunic. 
"Vigorous  young  shield-bearers  lifted  him  light  as  a 
child  in  their  arms,  and  plunged  him  in  the  water. 

Now  the  dying  man  showed  not  the  slightest 
emotion,  and  looked  with  a  drowsy  lifeless  face,  his 
wide-open  eyes  unmoving  at  the  brightly  gleam- 
ing cross  on  the  Labarum,  the  golden  standard  of 
Constantine.  It  was  a  fixed  and  meaningless  stare, 
like  the  gaze  of  infants  whose  eyes  are  fascinated 
by  some  bright  object,  so  that  they  cannot  turn 
them  away. 

Evidently  the  rite  had  not  brought  peace  to  the 
sick  man.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  about  it. 
For  the  last  time  his  will  flashed  forth  in  his  eyes, 
when  Eusebius  again  gave  him  the  tablet  and  sty- 
lus. But  Constantius  could  not  write — he  simply 
traced  the  first  letters  of  the  name  "Julian."  What 
did  it  mean?  Did  he  wish  to  forgive  his  enemy, 
or  to  command  revenge  against  him? 


The  Death  of  Constantius.  231 

He  was  in  torture  for  three  days.  The  courtiers 
whispered  to  each  other  that  he  wanted  to  die, 
Lut  could  not;  that  it  was  a  special  affliction  from 
God.  Still,  from  old  habit,  they  spoke  of  the 
dying  man  as  the  "blessed  Augustus,"  "His  Holi- 
ness," "His  Eternity." 

He  must  have  suffered.  The  mewing  was  pro- 
longed into  a  moaning  that  ceased  neither  day  nor 
night.  The  sounds  were  so  even,  so  uninterrupted 
that  it  seemed  they  could  not  come  from  a  human 
throat. 

The  courtiers  came  and  departed  as  quickly  as 
possible,  awaiting  the  end. 

Only  the  eunuch  Eusebius  did  not  leave  the 
dying  man,  night  or  day. 

The  Dignitary  of  the  Most  August  Bedchamber, 
in  person  and  character  resembled  a  querulous, 
crafty,  evil-natured  old  woman.  On  his  conscience 
were  many  sins.  All  the  tangled  threads  of  secret 
information,  spyings  and  church  quarrels,  went 
through  his  hands. 

But  perhaps  he  alone  of  all  the  court  loved  his 
protector  like  a  faithful  slave. 

By  night,  when  all  slept,  or  had  departed,  worn 
out  by  the  sight  of  so  much  protracted  suffering, 
Eusebius  did  not  quit  the  bed.  He  straightened 
the  pillow,  and  refreshed  the  sick  man's  dry  lips 
with  iced  drinks.  At  times  he  knelt  beside  the 
emperor's  feet,  and  probably  prayed.  When  no  one 
was  looking,  Eusebius  gently  turned  back  the  end 
of  the  purple  coverlet,  and,  with  tears,  kissed  the 
poor,  white,  numb  feet  of  the  dying  man. 

Once  it  even  seemed  to  him  that  Constantius 
felt  his  caress,  and  responded  to  it  with  a  look. 


232  Julian  the  Apostate. 

Something  brotherly  and  gentle  passed  between 
these  two  wicked,  unhappy  and  lonely  people. 

Eusebius  closed  the  emperor's  eyes,  and  saw  the 
real  majesty  of  death  spread  on  his  face,  which  had 
so  long  expressed  the  mock  majesty  of  power. 

Above  him  too  were  to  sound  the  words  which, 
according  to  custom,  the  Church  pronounced  be- 
fore the  remains  of  the  Roman  emperors  were  laid 
into  the  tomb: 

"Arise,  oh  king  of  the  earth!  Answer  the  sum- 
mons of  the  King  of  kings,  who  shall  judge  thee." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 
JULIAN  AND  THE  CROSS. 

Not  far  from  the  mountain  fastnesses  of  Syccos, 
on  the  frontier  between  Illyria  and  Thrace,  two 
men  walked  by  night  in  a  beech-wood,  beside  the 
narrow  road.  They  were  Julian  and  the  magician 
Maximus. 

The  full  moon  shone  in  a  clear  sky,  and  lit  up 
the  autumn  gold  and  the  purple  of  the  leaves. 
From  time  to  time,  a  yellow  leaf  fell  with  a  soft 
rustle.  There  was  a  peculiar  dampness,  a  smell 
of  late  autumn,  inexpressibly  sweet,  fresh,  and  at 
the  same  time  mournful,  recalling  death.  The 
soft,  dry  leaves  rustled  under  the  feet  of  the  way- 
farers. All  around,  in  the  still  forest  reigned  a 
sumptuous  funereal  splendor. 

"Teacher?"  said  Julian,  "why  have  I  not  the 
divine  lightness  of  life, — that  gladness,  which 
makes  so  lovely  the  muses  of  Hellas?" 


Julian  and  the  Cross.  233 

"You  are  not  a  Hellenist." 

Julian  sighed. 

"Alas!  our  ancestors  were  wild  barbarian?, 
Medians.  In  my  veins  flows  heavy,  bad  blood. 
I  am  not  a  son  of  Hellas." 

"My  friend,  Hellas  never  existed,"  pronounced 
Maximus,  with  his  ever  fascinating  smile. 

"What  does  that  mean?"  asked  Julian. 

"There  never  was  the  Hellas  that  you  love." 

"Is  my  faith  in  vain?" 

"You  can  have  faith,"  answered  Maximus,  "only 
in  what  is  not,  but  is  to  be.  Your  Hellas  will 
exist,  there  will  be  a  kingdom  of  demigods,  auda- 
cious, fearing  nothing." 

"Fearing  nothing?  Teacher,  you  are  master  of 
mighty  charms!  Free  my  soul  from  fear." 

"Of  what?" 

"I  know  not.  I  cannot  tell.  But  I  have  feared 
ever  since  childhood, — life,  death,  myself,  mys- 
teries that  are  everywhere,  darkness.  I  had  an  old 
nurse  Labda,  who  was  like  one  of  the  Fates.  She 
related  to  me  the  terrible  traditions  of  the  house 
of  the  Flavii.  Silly  old  women's  tales  still  echo  in 
my  ears,  by  night,  when  I  am  alone.  I  long  to  be 
full  of  joy,  like  the  old  heroes  of  Hellas,  and  can- 
not. Sometimes  I  think  that  I  am  a  coward. 
Teacher!  Teacher!  save  me.  Free  me  from  this 
everlasting  shadow  of  fear!" 

"Come,  I  know  what  you  need,"  pronounced 
Maximus,  majestically.  "I  will  cleanse  you  from 
the  Galilean  stain,  and  the  shadow  of  Golgotha,  in 
the  radiance  of  Mithra;  I  will  warm  you  from  the 
chill  waters  of  baptism  in  the  hot  blood  of  the 
sun-god!  Oh  my  son,  rejoice, — I  will  give  you 


234  Julian  the  Apostate. 

mighty  liberty  and  joy  such  as  no  man  has  ever  yet 
had  on  earth!" 

They  left  the  wood  and  entered  a  narrow  stony 
pathway,  cut  in  the  cliff  above  a  precipice.  Below 
murmured  a  rivulet.  Sometimes  a  stone  rolled 
from  beneath  their  feet,  and  awakening  an  angry 
sleepy  echo,  fell  into  the  abyss.  Snow  gleamed 
white  on  the  summit  of  Khodope. 

Julian  and  Maximus  entered  a  cave.  It  was  a 
temple  of  Mithra,  the  sun-god,  where  were  accom- , 
plished  the  mysteries,  forbidden  by  the  Roman 
laws.  There  was  no  luxury  here.  On  the  bare 
walls  were  only  drawn  the  symbolic  signs  of  the 
Zoroastrian  wisdom,  triangles,  constellations, 
winged  creatures,  interlaced  circles.  Torches 
burned  dully,  and  hierophants  in  long  strang" 
robes  moved  like  shadows. 

Julian  also  was  robed  in  an  "Olympian  gar- 
ment," a  robe  embroidered  with  Indian  dragons, 
stars,  suns,  and  hyperborean  gryphons.  A  torch 
was  put  in  his  right  hand.  Maximus  had  already 
prepared  his  mind,  and  taught  him  the  sentences 
of  the  initiatory  rite,  the  sacramental  answers  to 
the  questions  of  the  hierophant.  Julian  had  pre- 
pared himself  for  the  mysteries,  learning  the  an- 
swers by  heart,  though  their  meaning  would  only 
be  revealed  to  him  in  the  mysteries  themselves. 

He  advanced  with  Maximus  up  some  earthen 
steps,  through  a  long  cavern.  In  it,  the  air  was 
damp  and  close.  Above,  the  cavern  was  covered 
with  a  strong  framework  of  wood,  with  many 
openings,  like  a  network. 

There  was  a  sound  of  hoofs  on  the  wood.  The 
priests  were  placing  on  the  platform  three  black 
calves,  three  white,  and  one  fiery  red,  with  gilded 


Julian  and  the  Cross.  235 

hoofs  and  horns.  The  hierophants  sang  a  hymn. 
It  was  accompanied  by  the  sad  lowing  of  the 
beasts,  struck  by  a  two-edged  axe.  They  fell  on 
their  knees,  struggled,  and  the  platform  trembled 
under  their  weight.  The  passages  of  the  cave 
echoed  to  the  lowing  of  the  fire-colored  ox,  whom 
the  priests  called  the  God  Mithra. 

The  blood  dripping  through  the  spaces  of  the 
wooden  network  fell  on  Julian  in  a  red  warm 
stream. 

This  was  the  greatest  of  the  heathen  mysteries, 
the  so-called  "Taurobolia,"  the  immolation  of 
oxen,  consecrated  to  the  sun. 

Julian  cast  aside  his  upper  robe,  exposed  his 
white  undertunic,  his  head,  arms,  face  and  breast 
and  all  his  limbs  to  the  flowing  blood,  to  the  drops 
of  the  terrible  red  life  rain. 

Then  Maximus  the  high  priest,  brandishing  his 
torch,  pronounced  these  words: 

"'Thy  soul  is  washed  in  the  expiating  blood  of 
the  Sun-god,  the  cleansing  blood  of  the  ever  re- 
joicing Sun-god,  the  evening  and  morning  shining 
of  the  Sun-god.  Fearest  thou  yet  aught,  oh 
mortal?" 

"I  fear!"  answered  Julian. 

"Thy  soul  is  set  free,"  continued  Maximus, 
"from  every  shadow,  from  every  fear,  from  every 
slavery,  in  the  wine  of  divine  joy,  the  purple  wine 
of  the  exultant  joy  of  Mithra-Dionysus.  Fearest 
thou  yet  aught,  oh  mortal?" 

"I  fear,"  repeated  the  newly-consecrated  one. 

"Thy  soul  becomes  a  part  of  the  Sun-god,"  cried 
the  hierophant,  "Mithra,  the  invisible  and  incom- 
prehensible, takes  thee  for  his  son, — blood  of 


236  Julian  the  Apostate. 

blood,  flesh  of  flesh,  spirit  of  spirit,  light  of  light. 
Fearest  thou  yet  aught,  oh  mortal?" 

"I  fear  naught  more  on  earth,"  answered 
Julian,  blood-stained  from  head  to  foot,  "I  am  as 
He  is." 

"Beceive  the  crown  of  joy!"  and  Maximus,  with 
a  sharp  sword,  cast  over  his  head  an  acanthus 
crown. 

"The  Sun  alone  is  my  crown,"  answered  Julian, 
taking  the  wreath  from  his  head. 

He  cast  it  on  the  ground,  and  repeated: 

"The  Sun  alone  is  my  crown." 

Then  he  stamped  it  under  foot,  and  a  third 
time,  raising  his  hands  to  heaven,  he  exclaimed: 

"Now  and  until  death,  the  Sun  alone  is  my 
crown." 

The  mystery  was  accomplished.  Maximus  em- 
braced the  initiate,  and  on  the  old  man's  lips 
flashed  the  same  enigmatical  smile. 

When  they  were  returning  along  the  pathway 
through  the  forest,  the  emperor  turned  to  the 
magician: 

"Maximus,  it  seems  to  me  that  as  to  the  greatest 
matter,  you  keep  silent." 

He  turned  to  the  old  man  his  white  face,  from 
which,  according  to  custom,  he  had  not  wiped  the 
sacrificial  blood. 

"What  would  you  know,  Julian?" 

"What  will  befall  me?" 

"You  will  conquer." 

"And  Constantius?"  ^ 

"Constantius  is  no  more." 

"What?" 

"Wait,  the  sun  will  rise  on  your  glory." 


Julian  and  the  Cross.  237 

Julian  did  not  dare  to  ask  more.  They  returned 
silently  to  the  camp. 

In  Julian's  tent  a  courier  from  Asia  Minor  was 
waiting.  It  was  the  tribune  Sintula. 

He  knelt  and  kissed  the  hem  of  the  imperial 
robe. 

"Glory  to  Augustus  Julian,  the  blessed!" 

"Are  you  from  Constantius,  Sintula?" 

"Constantius  is  no  more." 

"What?" 

Julian  shuddered,  and  looked  toward  Maximus, 
who  retained  an  immovable  calm. 

"By  the  permission  of  divine  Providence,"  con- 
tinued Sintula,  "your  enemy  passed  away  in  the 
town  of  Mopsycrene,  not  far  from  Macellum." 

That  evening  the,  army  was  assembled  on  the 
plain.  They  already  knew  of  the  death  of  Con- 
stantius. 

Augustus  Claudius  Flavins  Julianus  ascended  a 
small  steep  cliff,  so  that  all  the  army  might  see 
him.  He  was  without  crown,  without  sword  or 
armor,  from  head  to  foot  clothed  in  purple.  To 
hide  the  traces  of  the  blood,  which  he  must  not 
wash  off,  the  purple  was  drawn  over  his  head  also, 
falling  on  his  forehead.  In  this  garment  he  re- 
sembled a  priest  of  the  Eastern  mysteries,  rather 
than  an  emperor. 

Behind  him  gleamed  the  red  autumn  woods,  on 
the  slopes  of  Hema,  beginning  from  the  cliff, 
where  Julian  stood.  Over  the  very  head  of  the 
emperor,  a  yellowish  maple  rustled  and  gleamed 
against  the  blue  sky,  like  a  golden  standard. 

The  Thracian  plain  stretched  to  the  horizon. 
The  old  Roman  road  crossed  it,  laid  with  broad 


238  Julian  the  Apostate. 

slabs  of  white  marble.  A  triumph  of  evenness,  it 
extended  to  the  very  waves  of  the  Propontis. 

Julian  looked  at  the  army.  When  the  legions 
moved  forward,  the  red  lightning  of  the  setting 
sun  flashed  on  the  bronze  helmets,  the  breast- 
plates and  the  eagles.  The  ends  of  the  spears 
glowed  over  the  cohorts,  like  torches. 

Beside  Julian  stood  Maximus.  Bending  to 
Julian's  ear,  he  whispered  to  him: 

"Behold,  what  glory!  Thy  hour  has  come. 
Delay  not!" 

The  magician  pointed  to  the  Christian  standard, 
the  Labarum,  the  sacred  standard  with  the  mono- 
gram of  Christ,  made  for  the  Koman  army  accord- 
ing to  the  likeness  of  that  miraculous  fiery  stand- 
ard with  the  inscription,  "In  hoc  signo  vinces!" 
which  Constantino  the  Great  *saw  in  the  heavens. 

The  trumpets  were  silent.  Julian  spoke  in  a 
loud,  majestic  voice: 

"My  children,  our  labors  are  ended.  We  enter 
Constantinople.  Thanks  to  the  Olympians,  who 
have  given  us  the  victory!" 

These  words  were  heard  only  by  the  first  ranks 
of  the  soldiers,  where  were  many  Christians.  Be- 
wilderment spread  among  them. 

"God  have  mercy!  what  is  that?"  said  one  sol- 
dier. 

"Do  you  see  the  old  fellow  with  the  grey  beard  ?" 
said  his  companion. 

"I  see  him." 

"That  is  the  Devil  himself,  in  the  shape  of 
Maximus  the  Wizard:  he  is  deluding  the.  emperor." 

But  the  isolated  voices  of  the  Christian  soldiers 
were  only  a  murmur.  From  the  distant  cohorts, 


Julian  and  the  Cross.  239 

standing  behind,  who  did  not  hear  Julian's  words, 
a  cry  of  triumph  arose: 

"Glory  to  the  Blessed  Augustus!  Glory! 
Glory!" 

And  ever  louder  and  louder  from  the  four  cor- 
ners of  the  plain  covered  by  the  legions,  rose  the 
cry: 

"Glory!    Glory!" 

The  hills,  the  earth,  the  air,  the  forest,  shook 
with  the  voices  of  the  host. 

"Look,  look!  they  are  pulling  down  the  Laba- 
rum!"  said  the  Christians,  in  horror. 

"What  is  this?  what  is  this?" 

And  in  truth  they  were  lowering  the  ancient 
war  standard,  made  sacred  by  Constantine. 

From  the  forest  came  an  armorer,  with  a  port- 
able forge,  pinchers,  and  a  pot  of  lead,  for  solder- 
ing metal.  All  this  had  been  prepared  before- 
hand, with  a  definite  object. 

The  Emperor,  pale  in  spite  of  the  sheen  of  the 
purple  and  the  sun,  tore  the  golden  cross  and  the 
monogram  of  precious  stones  from  the  pole  of  the 
Labarum.  The  army  was  thunderstruck.  Pearls, 
emeralds  and  rubies  were  strewn  on  the  ground, 
and  the  fine  filigree  cross  struck  into  the  soft 
ground,  was  crushed  under  the  sandal  of  the 
Cassar. 

Maximus  drew  forth  a  small  silver  image  of  the 
god  of  the  sun,  Mithra-Helios,  wrapped  in  blue 
silk  brocade,  from  a  splendid  case. 

The  armorer  approached,  and  in  a  few  moments 
skilfully  straightened  the  hooks  in  the  pole  of  the 
Labarum,  and  soldered  the  image  of  Mithra  to 
them. 

Before  the  army  could  come  to  itself,  for  a 'ton- 


240  Julian  the  Apostate. 

ishment,  the  Sacred  Standard  of  Constantine  was 
rustling  and  waving  over  the  head  of  the  Em- 
peror, crowned  with  an  idol  of  Apollo. 

An  old  soldier,  a  pious  Christian,  turned  away, 
and,  not  to  look  on  this  iniquity,  covered  his  eyes 
with  his  hand. 

"Blasphemy,"  he  murmured,  turning  pale. 

"Woe,  woe!"  whispered  another,  in  his  compan- 
ion's ear,  "the  devil  has  deluded  the  Emperor." 

Julian  knelt  before  the  Standard,  and  raising 
his  hands  toward  the  silver  statue,  exclaimed: 

"Glory  to  the  invincible  Sun,  ruler  of  all  the 
gods!  Augustus  henceforth  bows  before  the  eter- 
nal Helios,  the  god  of  light,  the  god  of  reason,  the 
god  of  beauty  and  of  joy." 

The  last  rays  of  the  sun  were  reflected  on  the 
pitiless,  haughtily  beautiful  face  of  the  Delphic 
deity.  His  head  was  surrounded  with  silver  rays. 
The  "Far-Darter"  smiled  triumphantly. 

The  legions  were  dumb.  A  silence  came  over 
them,  so  deep  that  the  rustling  of  the  dead  leaves 
was  heard,  as  they  fell  in  the  forest. 

In  the  blood-red  radiance  of  the  sunset,  in  the 
scarlet  of  the  last  high  priest,  and  in  the  purple 
of  the  dying  forest,  there  was  a  gloomy  funereal 
splendor, — the  majesty  of  death. 

One  of  the  soldiers  in  the  front  ranks,  pro- 
nounced one  word  so  clearly  that  Julian  heard  it 
and  shuddered: 

"Antichrist!" 


PART  II. 

CHAPTER  I. 
IN  THE  HIPPODROME. 

Beside  the  stables,  in  the  hippodrome  of  Con- 
stantinople, were  chambers  and  dressing-rooms  for 
the  grooms,  the  riders,  the  mimes,  and  the  char- 
ioteers. Here  even  in  daytime  hanging  lamps  fas- 
tened to  the  vaults,  sent  up  their  smoky  flames. 
The  close  air,  heavy  with  the  smell  of  manure,  was 
full  of  the  heat  of  the  stables. 

When  the  curtain  in  the  doorway  was  drawn 
aside,  the  blinding  light  of  the  morning  burst  in. 
In  the  sunny  distance  were  seen  the  empty  seats 
for  the  spectators,  the  magnificent  stairway,  which 
communicated  between  the  emperor's  box  and  the 
inner  rooms  of  the  palace,  the  stone  columns  of 
Egyptian  obelisks,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  smooth, 
yellow  sand,  a  giant  altar  of  three  intertwined 
bronze  serpents:  their  flattened  heads  supported  a 
Delphic  tripod  of  splendid  workmanship. 

Sometimes  the  cracking  of  whips  and  the  cries 
of  the  riders  floated  in  from  the  arena,  with  the 
snorting  of  horses,  and  the  rushing  wheels  on  the 
soft  sand,  like  the  rustling  of  wings. 

This  was  not  a  chariot  race,  but  only  the  prep- 
arations for  the  real  games,  which  were  to  be  held 
in  the  hippodrome,  in  a  few  days. 

241 


242  Julian  the  Apostate. 

In  one  corner  of  the  stable,  a  naked  athlete  an- 
ointed with  olive  oil,  and  covered  with  the  dust 
used  by  the  gymnasts,,  a  leather  belt  around  his 
loins,  was  exercising  with  iron  weights.  Throwing 
back  his  close-cropped  head,  he  strained  his  back 
till  the  bones  creaked  in  his  joints,  his  face  grew 
blue,  and  the  veins  stood  out  on  his  thick  neck  like 
the  veins  of  an  ox. 

A  young  Byzantine  lady,  accompanied  by  her 
slaves,  came  to  see  him;  she  wore  an  elegant  morn- 
ing stole,  drawn  over  her  head,  and  falling  in  folds 
on  her  fine  aristocratic  face,  which  had  lost  its  first 
freshness.  She  was  a  zealous  Christian,  beloved  by 
all  the  priests  and  monks  for  her  munificent  gifts 
to  the  monasteries  and  her  lavish  charities;  she 
was  the  widow  of  a  Eoman  senator,  and  had  come 
from  Alexandria.  At  first  she  concealed  her  visits, 
but  soon  saw  that  to  unite  love  for  the  Church 
with  love  for  the  circus  was  accepted  as  the  very 
latest  fashion.  Every  one  knew  that  Stratonica 
detested  the  Constantinople  fops,  curled  and 
rouged,  as  nervous  and  capricious  as  she  herself. 
Such  was  her  nature:  she  mingled  the  costliest 
odors  of  Araby  with  the  close  smell  of  the  stables 
and  the  circus.  After  hot  tears  of  repentance, 
after  the  painful  absolutions  of  artful  priests,  this 
little  woman,  as  fragile  and  delicate  as  a  plaything 
carved  out  of  ivory,  came  back  again  to  the  coarse 
embraces  of  the  famous  circus-rider. 

Stratonica  watched  the  athlete's  exercises  with 
the  eye  of  a  connoisseur.  With  dull  pride  on  his 
ox-like  face,  the  gymnast  affected  not  to  notice  her 
existence.  She  whispered  something  in  her  slave's 
ear,  and  with  simple  admiration  gazed  at  his 
mighty  back,  and  watched  the  Herculean  muscles 


In  the  Hippodrome.  243 

moving  under  the  stiff,  red-brown  skin  on  his  huge 
shoulders,  when  he  bent,  and  slowly  filling  his 
lungs  with  air,  like  a  blacksmith's  bellows,  raised 
the  iron  weights  above  his  animal-like,  stupid, 
handsome  head. 

The  curtains  were  drawn  aside,  the  crowd  of 
spectators  divided,  and  two  young  Cappadocian 
mares,  one  white,  the  other  black,  cantered  into 
the  stable  with  a  young  equestrienne,  who  sprang 
deftly  from  the  back  of  one  horse  to  the  other, 
with  a  strange  guttural  cry.  She  turned  in  the  air 
for  the  last  time,  and  leaped  to  the  ground.  Her 
whole  person  was  as  strong,  healthy,  and  gay  as 
her  young  mares.  Little  drops  of  sweat  stood  on 
her  naked  body.  A  young  sub-deacon  of  the 
Church  of  the  Holy  Apostles,  daintily  dressed, 
sprang  up  to  her,  smiling.  He  was  Zephyrinus,  a 
great  lover  of  the  circus,  a  connoisseur  of  horses 
and  an  enthusiastic  sportsman,  laying  enormous 
sums  on  the  "blues"  against  the  "greens."  He 
wore  creaking  shoes  of  Morocco  leather,  with  red 
heels.  With  colyrium-marked  eyes,  powdered  face, 
and  carefully  curled  hair,  Zephyrinus  looked  more 
like  a  girl  than  a  Church  functionary.  Behind 
him  stood  a  slave,  loaded  with  all  kinds  of  stuffs, 
bundles,  boxes,  and  purchases  from  the  fashion- 
shops. 

"Crocala,  here  is  the  perfume  you  asked  me  for 
the  day  before  yesterday." 

With  a  graceful  bow,  the  suj>deacon  handed  the 
equestrienne  a  little  box,  sealed  with  pale  blue 
wax. 

"I  have  been  hunting  through  the  shops  all  the 
morning.  I  could  only  find  it  in  one.  It  is  pure 
spikenard!  It  came  from  Apamea  only  yesterday.'* 


.244  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"And  what  else  have  you  bought?"  asked  Cro- 
cala,  curiously. 

'"Some  silk  with  fashionable  drawings, — and — 
all  sorts  of  ladies'  trifles." 

"All  for  your—?" 

"Yes,  yes,  all  for  my  honorable  sister,  all  for  the 
devout  matron  Blesilla.  We  must  help  our  neigh- 
bors. She  depends  on  my  taste,  in  buying  stuffs. 
Since  sunrise,  I  have  been  running  errands  for  her. 
I  am  off  my  feet  altogether.  But  I  do  not  com- 
plain, no,  no,  I  do  not  complain.  Blesilla  is  really 
so  good,  so — a  saintly  woman,  one  may  call  her." 

"Yes,  yes,  but  unfortunately  old,"  laughed  Cro- 
«ala.  "Ho!  Boy!  Quick!  Rub  down  the  sweat  off 
the  black  mare  with  fresh  fig-leaves." 

"Old  age  also  has  its  indubitable  advantages!" 
replied  the  sub-deacon,  self-satisfiedly  rubbing  his 
white,  pampered  hands,  with  their  costly  rings. 
Then  he  whispered  in  Crocala's  ear: 

"This  evening?" 

"I  do  not  know,  really.  Perhaps.  Are  you 
going  to  bring  me  something?" 

"Fear  not,  Crocala.  I  shall  not  come  with  empty 
hands.  There  is  a  piece  of  stuff.  What  a  pattern 
it  is,  if  you  only  knew!" 

He  raised  two  fingers  to  his  lips,  half-closed  his 
eyes,  and  murmured: 

"A  perfect  treasure." 

"Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"In  Sirmicus'  shop,  at  the  baths  of  Constantine, 
of  course.  What  do  you  take  me  for?  You  can 
make  a  long  tarantinidion  of  it.  Just  imagine 
what  is  embroidered  on  the  skirt!  What  do  you 
think  it  is?" 

"I  do  not  know — flowers?  animals?" 


In  the  Hippodrome.  245 

"Neither  flowers  nor  animals,  but  the  whole 
story  of  the  cynic  Diogenes,  the  beggar-sage,  who 
lived  in  a  tub,  done  in  gold,  and  many-colored 
silks!" 

"It  must  be  beautiful!"  cried  the  equestrienne. 
"Come,  come,  without  fail.  I  shall  expect  you." 

Zephyrinus  glanced  at  the  water-clock,  the  clep- 
sydra, standing  in  a  recess  of  the  wall,  and  began 
to  hurry  away. 

"I  am  late,  I  am  quite  late.  I  have  to  go  to  the 
usurer  on  some  other  business  for  the  good  ma- 
tron, then  to  the  jeweler,  then  to  the  Patriarch, 
and  after  that  to  church,  for  service.  Good-by, 
Crocala." 

"See  that  you  do  not  fail,"  she  cried  after  him, 
and  held  up  a  threatening  finger,  "you  gay  rogue!'*' 

The  sub-deacon  disappeared,  his  Morocco  shoes 
creaking  and  his  slave  carrying  the  bundles  after 
him. 

A  crowd  of  grooms,  horsemen,  dancers,  gym- 
nasts, boxers  and  wild-beast-tamers,  ran  in.  Mir- 
millon  the  gladiator,  in  a  wire  mask,  was  heating  a 
thick  iron  bar  in  a  furnace.  He  was  taming  a  re- 
cently arrived  African  lion.  The  beast's  roaring 
was  heard,  through  the  wall. 

Then  another  voice: 

"You  will  bring  me  to  the  grave,  granddaugh- 
ter, and  yourself  to  eternal  perdition.  Oh — ho — 
ho.  My  sides  ache.  I  am  at  the  end  of  my 
strength!" 

"Oh,  it  is  you.  Grandfather  Gniphon;  what  are 
you  wailing  about?"  cried  Crocala,  annoyed. 

Gniphon  was  an  old  man,  with  crafty,  rheumy 
eyes,  twinkling  under  grey  brows,  that  kept  mov- 
ing like  two  white  mice,  and  a  nose  deep  purple 


246  Julian  the  Apostate. 

from  drink.  He  wore  a  pair  of  patched  Lydian 
drawers,  and  on  his  head  wabbled  a  Phrygian  felt 
hat,  like  a  night-cap,  with  its  sharp  top  bent  for- 
wards, and  two  flaps  for  the  ears. 

"You  have  come  for  money,"  cried  Crocala  an- 
grily, "you  are  drunk  again!" 

"It  is  a  sin  for  you  to  say  it,  granddaughter. 
You  answer  for  my  soul  before  God.  Think  what 
you  have  brought  me  to.  I  live  now  in  the  Fig- 
tree  quarter,  and  hire  a  cheap  little  room  on  the 
ground  floor,  from  a  certain  sculptor,  that  is  to 
say,  a  maker  of  idols.  Every  day  I  see  how  he 
carves  accursed  images — God  forgive  me — out  of 
marble.  Do  you  think  that  is  nice,  for  a  good 
Christian?  What?  You  haven't  opened  your  eyes 
in  the  morning,  when  you  hear  tap,  tap,  tap, — the 
master  is  busy  at  the  stones  with  his  hammer,  and 
foul  white  devils  come  out,  one  after  another, 
damned  gods,  that  seem  to  laugh  at  me,  and  wrin- 
kle up  their  shameless  faces.  How  can  I  keep 
from  sin,  and  not  creep  down  to  the  tavern  out  of 
shame,  and  take  a  dram?  Oh — ho — ho,  the  Lord 
have  mercy  upon  sinful  men!  I  wallow  in  heathen 
wickedness  like  a  sow  in  the  mire.  And  I  know 
that  all  will  be  required  of  us,  even  to  the  utter- 
most farthing.  And  who,  you  may  ask,  is  to 
blame?  You  are!  The  chickens  could  not  pick 
up  all  your  money,  granddaughter,  and  for  an  old 
man." 

"You  are  a  liar,  Gniphon,"  answered  the  girl, 
"you  are  not  poor  at  all,  you  skinflint!  You  have 
a  jug  under  your  bed." 

Gniphon  held  up  his  hands  in  terror: 
"Hush,  hush!"  1  ' 

To  change  the  conversation,  he  added: 


In  the  Hippodrome.  247 

"Do  you  know  where  I  am  going?" 

"Probably  back  to  the  tavern." 

"Not  to  the  tavern,  but  to  something  rather  like 
it.  I  am  going  to  the  shrine  of  Dionysus  himself! 
Since  the  times  of  the  blessed  Constantine,  the 
shrine  has  been  buried  in  -rubbish.  But  to-mor- 
row, by  the  august  order  of  Ca3sar  Julian,  it  is  to 
be  opened  again.  And  I  have  hired  myself  to 
clean  it.  I  know  that  I  am  losing  my  soul,  and 
that  I  shall  burn  in  Gehenna  for  it.  But  still  I 
yielded  to  temptation.  Because  I  am  naked,  and 
poor  and  hungered,  I  receive  no  support  from  my 
own  granddaughter.  That  is  what  I  have  come 
to!" 

"Get  away,  Gniphon,  I  am  tired  of  you.  Here, 
take  this  and  go!  Don't  dare  to  come  to  me 
drunk  again!" 

She  threw  a  few  small  silver  coins  to  him,  and 
then  jumped  on  a  brown,  half-wild  Illyrian  stal- 
lion, and  standing  on  its  back  and  cracking  her 
long  whip,  flew  through  the  hippodrome. 

Gniphon  clucked  his  tongue  with  pleasure  and 
cried  out  proudly: 

"I  reared  her  with  my  own  hands!" 

And  the  old  man  pointed  after  her  triumph- 
antly. Her  firm  naked  body  flashed  in  the  morn- 
ing sun,  p.nd  her  loose  red  hair  was  of  the  same 
color  as  the  coat  of  the  Illyrian  stallion. 

"Ho,  Zoticus!"  cried  Gniphon,  to  an  old  slave, 
who  was  sweeping  manure  into  a  wicker  basket, 
"come  with  me  and  clean  the  shrine  of  Dionysus. 
You  are  a  master  at  that  sort  of  thing.  I'll  give 
you  three  oboli." 

"I'll  come,  and  thank  you,"  answered  Zoticus, 
"only  wait  till  I  fix  the  lamp  before  the  goddess/* 


248  Julian  the  Apostate. 

The  goddess  was  Hippona,  patroness  of  char- 
ioteers, stables,  and  manure.  Koughly  hewn  out 
of  wood,  smoke-begrimed,  looking  like  a  log,  Hip- 
pona  stood  in  a  damp,  dark  niche  of  the  wall,  but 
the  slave  Zoticus,  who  had  grown  up  among 
horses,  held  her  sacred,  prayed  to  her  with  tears  of 
humility,  decorated  her  coarse  black  feet  with 
fresh  violets,  and  believed  that  she  would  heal  all 
his  sorrows,  and  guard  him  in  life  and  death. 

Gniphon  and  Zoticus  went  out  to  the  market- 
place, the  so-called  Forum  of  Constantine,  a  circle, 
with  double  colonnades  and  triumphal  arches.  A 
gigantic  pillar  of  porphyry  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  square,  on  a  marble  pedestal.  At  its  summit, 
at  a  height  of  more  than  a  hundred  and  twenty  cu- 
bits, shone  a  bronze  statue  of  Apollo,  the  work  of 
Phidias,  stolen  from  a  city  of  Phrygia.  The  head 
of  the  old  Sun  God  had  been  broken  off,  and  with 
barbarous  lack  of  taste,  to  the  trunk  of  the  Helle- 
nic image  had  been  added  the  head  of  the  Chris- 
tian emperor  Constantine,  the  equal  of  the  Apos- 
tles. His  brow  was  girt  with  a  crown  of  golden 
rays;  in  his  right  hand,  Apollo-Constantine  held  a 
scepter;  in  his  left  a  globe.  A  little  Christian 
chapel,  like  the  Palladium,  nestled  under  the  ped- 
estal of  the  colossus.  Divine  service  had  been  held 
here  up  till  quite  recently,  even  in  Constantius' 
time.  The  Christians  justified  themselves  by  say- 
ing that  in  the  bronze  trunk  of  Apollo  in  the 
breast-plate  of  the  Sun  God,  was  enclosed  a  talis- 
man, a  piece  of  the  Holy  Cross,  brought  by  Helena 
from  Jerusalem.  The  emperor  Julian  closed  the 
chapel. 

Gniphon  and  Zoticus  entered  a  long,  narrow 
street,  which  led  straight  to  the  Chalcedonian 


In  the  Hippodrome.  249 

Stairs,  not  far  from  the  port.  Many  buildings 
were  still  being  erected,  others  were  being  re- 
stored, because  they  had  been  raised  with  such  ill- 
considered  haste,  to  gratify  Constantine,  that  they 
were  tumbling  to  pieces.  Below,  people  were  pass- 
ing up  and  down,  and  purchasers  in  the  shops, 
porters,  and  slaves  were  gathered  in  crowds,  and 
wagons  were  rumbling  past.  And  above,  on  the 
wooden  scaffoldings,  hammers  sounded,  pulleys 
creaked,  sharp  saws  grated  through  the  hard, 
white  stone,  and  workmen  were  raising  huge 
beams,  or  four-cornered  blocks  of  Proconnesian 
marble,  gleaming  against  the  blue.  There  was  a 
smell  of  the  dampness  of  new  houses,  of  still  wet 
mortar.  A  fine  white  dust  fell  on  the  heads  of  the 
passers-by.  In  places,  between  the  dazzlingly 
white  wralls,  just  newly  stuccoed  and  flooded  with 
bright  sunshine,  the  fairy-blue  waves  of  the  Pro- 
pontis  laughing  in  the  sunlight,  sparkled  far  off, 
dotted  with  sails  like  sea-gulls'  wings. 

Gniphon  passing  by  heard  a  fragment  of  a  con- 
versation between  two  workmen  spattered  from 
head  to  foot  with  alabaster  paste,  which  they  were 
mixing  in  a  big  basin. 

"Why  did  you  accept  the  faith  of  the  Gali- 
leans?" asked  one. 

"Judge  yourself,"  answered  his  companion,  "the 
Christians  have  not  twice,  but  five  times  as  many 
holidays  as  the  Hellenes.  No  one  is  his  own 
enemy.  I  advise  you  to  join  them  too.  With  the 
Christians,  there  is  far  more  leisure." 

At  a  crossing,  the  crowd  crushed  Gniphon  and 
Zoticus  up  against  the  wall.  Wagons  were  blocked 
together  in  the  midst  of  the  street,  so  that  neither 
carriages  nor  pedestrians  could  pass;  and  the  air 


250  Julian  the  Apostate. 

was  full  of  cries,  the  cracking  of  whips,  and  the 
shouts  of  drivers.  Twenty  pairs  of  strong  oxen, 
bending  their  heads  under  the  yoke,  were  drag- 
ging a  column  of  jasper  on  a  huge  wagon  with 
heavy  stone  wheels  like  mill-stones.  The  ground 
trembled  under  the  weight  of  the  wheels. 

"Where  are  you  taking  it  to?"  asked  Gniphon. 

"From  the  basilica  of  St.  Paul  to  the  temple  of 
the  goddess  Hera.  The  Christians  took  this  column 
away  for  their  church.  Now  it  is  being  taken  back 
to  its  old  place." 

Gniphon  glanced  at  the  dirty  wall  beside  which 
he  was  standing.  The  heathen  street  boys  had 
decorated  it  with  the  usual  sacrilegious  caricature 
against  the  Christians,  in  charcoal. 

Gniphon  spat  in  disgust.  Near  a  thronged  mar- 
ket, he  noticed  a  picture  of  Julian,  with  all  the  at- 
tributes of  imperial  power.  The  winged  god 
Hermes,  with  his  caduceus,  was  descending  on  Ju- 
lian, from  the  clouds.  The  picture  was  new.  The 
colors  had  hardly  had  time  to  dry. 

According  to  the  Roman  law,  every  one  who 
passed  the  sacred  image  of  Augustus,  had  to  salute 
it  with  bowed  head. 

The  market  watchman,  the  agoranome,  had 
stopped  an  old  woman  with  a  basket  of  beets  and 
cabbages. 

"I  cannot  worship  the  gods,"  cried  the  old 
woman,  "my  father  and  mother  were  Christians 
before  me." 

"You  are  to  bow  before  the  Roman  Emperor, 
not  before  the  gods,"  answered  the  watchman. 

"But  the  emperor  and  the  god  are  together. 
How  can  I  bow  before  him?" 


In  the  Hippodrome.  251 

"What  do  I  care  about  that?  I  tell  you  to  bow! 
Don't  argue!" 

Gniphon  dragged  Zoticus  away  as  quickly  as 
possible. 

"Devilish  cunning!"  growled  the  old  man. 
"Either  bow  to  the  accursed  Hermes,  or  be  guilty 
of  high  treason.  Neither  the  one  thing,  nor  the 
other.  Oh — ho — ho,  the  time  of  Antichrist  is 
come!  The  devil  is  arousing  a  storm  of  fierce  per- 
secution. Wherever  you  look,  you  are  sure  to  sin. 
When  I  look  at  you,  Zoticus,  I  am  full  of  envy. 
You  live  with  your  manure  god,  Hippona,  and  all 
goes  well  with  you." 

They  reached  the  shrine  of  Dionysus.  Beside 
the  temple,  there  was  a  community  of  Christian 
monks.  The  doors  and  windows  were  fastened 
with  iron  bars  and  locks,  as  if  an  invasion  of  some 
enemy  were  expected.  The  heathen  accused  the 
pious  monks  of  having  stolen  many  treasures  from 
the  temple. 

When  Gniphon  and  Zoticus  entered,  they  saw 
locksmiths,  carpenters,  and  stone-masons,  busy 
cleaning  and  repairing  the  damaged  parts  of  the 
temple. 

They  broke  away  the  half-rotten  planks  which 
covered  a  hole  in  the  roof.  The  rays  of  the  sun 
lit  up  the  darkness. 

"Cobwebs,  look,  what  a  lot  of  cobwebs!" 

Among  the  capitols  of  the  columns  hung  whole 
nets  of  light,  dusty  grey  webs.  They  fastened 
brooms  to  long  sticks,  and  began  to  brush  the  spi- 
ders' webs  away.  A  disturbed  bat  fluttered  out  of 
a  dark  corner,  and  not  knowing  where  to  hide 
from  the  light,  flew  hither  and  thither,  rustling  its 
soft  featherless  wings. 


252  Julian  the  Apostate. 

Zoticus  gathered  up  fragments  of  rubbish  from 
the  floor  and  carried  them  away  in  his  plaited 
basket. 

"See  what  a  lot  of  filth  they  have  accumulated, 
the  beasts!"  muttered  the  old  man  to  himself. 

They  brought  a  bunch  of  heavy  rusty  keys,  and 
opened  the  treasure-chest.  The  monks  had  plun- 
dered everything  of  value.  The  precious  stones 
had  been  torn  from  the  votive  cups,  and  the  gold 
and  purple  embroideries  were  ripped  off  the  hang- 
ings. When  they  drew  forth  a  splendid  priestly 
chasuble,  a  cloud  of  straw-colored  moths  fluttered 
out  of  the  folds.  At  the  bottom  of  an  iron  censor, 
Gniphon  found  a  heap  of  ashes,  the  remnant  of 
the  myrrh  burned  before  the  last  priest  gave  way 
before  the  tide  of  Christianity.  From  all  these  sa- 
cred utensils,  from  these  poor  rags  and  broken  ves- 
sels, came  an  odor  of  death,  of  mildew,  and  a  soft 
sad  perfume,  the  incense  of  the  dishonored  gods. 
A  sweet  melancholy  penetrated  Gniphon's  heart. 
He  remembered  something,  and  smiled.  Perhaps 
he  was  thinking  of  his  childhood,  of  the  tasty  bar- 
ley cakes  with  honey  and  thyme,  of  the  white  field- 
daisies,  and  yellow  dandelions  which  he  and  his 
mother  had  brought  to  the  modest  altar  of  the  vil- 
lage goddess;  and  he  remembered  lisping  child ish 
prayers,  not  to  the  far-off  God  of  heaven,  but  to 
the  little  earthly  Penates,  glossy  from  the  touch 
of  human  hands,  carved  out  of  simple  beechwood. 
And  he  felt  full  of  pity  for  the  dead  gods,  and 
sighed  deeply.  But  immediately  he  came  to  him- 
self, and  whispered:  "Promptings  of  the  devil." 

The  workmen  brought  a  heavy  marble  slab,  an 
old  bas-relief  stolen  many  years  ago,  and  found  in 
the  neighboring  hovel  of  a  Jewish  shoemaker.  The 


In  the  Hippodrome.  253 

bas-relief,  lying  among  the  bricks,  held  the  shoe- 
maker's tumble-down  stove  together.  Old  Philu- 
mena,  the  wife  of  a  neighboring  clothier  and  a  de- 
vout Christian,  detested  the  shoemaker's  wife.  The 
accursed  Jewess  kept  letting  her  ass  loose  in  the 
clothier's  wife's  cabbage-garden.  War  had  been 
waged  between  the  neighbors  for  many  years. 
Finally  the  Christian  conquered.  On  her  informa- 
tion, the  workmen  entered  the  shoemaker's  house, 
and  took  away  the  slab  of  bas-relief.  But  in  doing 
so  they  had  to  pull  his  stove  to  pieces.  This  was  a 
terrible  blow  to  the  shoemaker's  wife.  The  poor 
thrifty  housewife,  brandishing  an  oven-fork, called 
down  the  curse  of  Jehovah  on  the  unclean,  tore 
her  hair  and  wailed  pitifully  over  her  upset 
saucepans  and  dilapidated  stove.  The  little  Jews 
squealed  like  young  birds  in  a  ruined  nest.  But 
the  bas-relief  was  taken  to  its  former  place,  in 
Bpite  of  everything. 

Fhilumena  was  getting  ready  to  wash  it.  The 
bas-relief  was  blackened  by  the  ill-smelling  smoke. 
Greasy  streaks  of  Jewish  soup  stained  the  marble. 
The  clothier's  wife  industriously  rubbed  the  soft 
stone  with  a  wet  cloth,  and  little  by  little  the  se- 
vere, godlike  lines  of  the  ancient  sculpture  ap- 
peared from  under  the  fetid  kitchen  soot.  Dio- 
nysus, young,  naked  and  beautiful,  reclined,  with 
one  hand  withdrawn  from  his  goblet,  as  if  over- 
come with  Bacchanalian  frenzy.  A  panther  was 
lapping  the  remains  of  the  wine.  And  the  god, 
who  gave  joy  to  all  that  lives,  with  a  wise  and  gra- 
cious smile  watched  how  the  strength  of  the  wine 
added  a  new  and  sacred  beauty  to  the  strength  of 
the  wild  beast. 


254  Julian  the  Apostate. 

The  stone-masons  began  to  lift  the  bas-relief 
on  ropes,  to  fasten  it  once  more  in  its  old  place. 

Before  the  image  of  Dionysus,  on  a  wooden 
folding  ladder  stood  a  goldsmith,  setting  two  mag- 
nificent sapphires  of  the  deepest  transparent  blue 
in  the  dark  empty  cavities  in  the  face  of  the  god. 
They  were  the  eyes  of  Dionysus. 

"What  are  those?"  asked  Gniphon,  with  timid 
curiosity. 

"Can  you  not  see? — eyes." 

"That  is  so,  that  is  so.  And  where  did  the  stones 
come  from?" 

"From  the  monastery." 

"How  did  the  monks  allow  it?" 

"How  could  they  help  it?  The  blessed  Augus- 
tus Julian  himself  ordered  it.  The  god's  bright 
eyes  adorned  the  garment  of  the  Crucified.  That 
is  what  it  is.  They  talk  about  mercy  and  justice, 
and  they  themselves  are  always  the  first  to  plun- 
der. See  how  well  the  stones  fit  into  their  old 
place!" 

The  god,  restored  to  sight,  gazed  at  Gniphon 
with  his  sapphire  eyes.  The  old  man  stepped 
back  and  crossed  himself,  seized  with  superstitious 
fear.  "Lord  have  mercy!  what  a  horror!"  he  cried. 
Repentance  tormented  him.  While  wiping  away 
the  dust,  he  talked  to  himself,  according  to  an  old 
habit: 

"Gniphon,  Gniphon,  you  are  a  poor  creature, 
you  may  say  straight  out, — a  worthless  dog!  What 
have  you  done  with  yourself  in  your  old  age,  what 
have  you  lost  your  soul  for?  The  Adversary  has 
ensnared  you  with  cursed  pay.  And  you  will  go 
to  the  everlasting  fire,  and  there  will  be  no  salva- 
tion for  you.  You  have  polluted  your  soul,  Gni- 


In  tlic  Hippodrome.  255 

phon,  with  idolatrous  filth.  Better  for  you,  if  you 
had  never  been  born!" 

"What  are  you  grumbling  about,  grandfather?" 
asked  the  clothier's  wife,  Philumena. 

"My  heart  grieves,  oh  my  heart  grieves!" 

"Are  you  a  Christian?"  ' 

"What  sort  of  a  Christian  am  I?  Worse  than 
any  Jew;  I  am  not  a  Christian,  but  a  betrayer  of 
the  Christ!" 

Still  he  continued  zealously  brushing  away  the 
dust. 

"Well,  would  you  like  me  to  take  your  sin  away, 
and  not  have  any  of  the  idolatrous  evil  stick  to 
you?  I  am  a  Christian  myself.  And  I  am  not 
afraid.  Do  you  think  I  would  go  into  bad  work 
like  this,  if  I  did  not  know  how  to  cleanse  my- 
self?" 

Gniphon  looked  at  her  suspiciously. 

The  clothier's  wife  looked  round  to  see  that  no 
one  was  watching  them.  She  whispered,  with  a 
look  of  mystery: 

"There  is  a  way.  Yes.  I  must  tell  you  that  a 
holy  elder  gave  me  a  piece  of  an  Egyptian  tree, 
called  Persis.  This  tree  grows  in  Hermopolis  of 
the  Thebaid.  When  the  infant  Jesus  and  the 
Blessed  Virgin  entered  the  gates  of  the  city  on  the 
ass,  the  Persis  bent  to  the  ground  before  them, 
and  from  that  time  forth  it  has  worked  miracles, 
and  healed  the  sick.  And  I  have  a  chip  of  that 
very  tree,  and  I  will  split  a  splinter  off  it  for  you. 
There  is  such  virtue  in  it,  such  virtue,  that  if  you 
put  the  smallest  piece  of  it  in  a  large  vessel  of 
water  over  night,  the  whole  of  the  water  will  be 
consecrated  by  morning.  And  there  will  be  an 
unspeakable  power  in  it!  If  you  wash  yourself 


256  Julian  the  Apostate. 

from  head  to  foot  with  that  water,  the  idolatrous 
pollution  will  go  away  altogether.  You  will  feel  a 
lightness  and  cleanness  in  all  your  members.  And 
in  the  Scriptures  it  is  written:  "Wash  in  this  water, 
and  thou  shalt  be  whiter  than  snow." 

"Oh  my  benefactress!"  cried  Gniphon,"  save  me, 
who  am  accursed!  Give  me  a  piece  of  your  blessed 
wood!" 

"Only — you — know — it  is  dear.  Well,  what- 
ever may  come  of  it,  I'll  let  you  have  it  for  a 
drachma." 

"What  are  you  saying,  mother  dear?  the  Lord 
have  mercy!  I  have  not  owned  a  drachma  from 
the  day  of  my  birth.  Will  you  give  it  to  me  for 
five  oboli?" 

"Oh  you  miser!"  cried  the  clothier's  wife,  in  dis- 
gust,— "you  begrudge  a  drachma!  Is  your  whole 
soul  not  worth  a  drachma?" 

"That  is  all  very  well, — but  would  it  cleanse 
me?"  Gniphon  began  to  doubt.  "Perhaps  the 
pollution  has  stuck  so  fast  that  it  won't  wash  off." 

"It  will  cleanse  yon,"  said  the  clothier's  wife, 
with  unshakable  confidence.  "Now  you  are  like  a 
mangy  dog.  But  if  you  sprinkle  yourself  with  holy 
water  you  will  feel  the  scurf  falling  off  your  soul, 
and  it  will  shine  with  the  whiteness  of  a  dove." 


CHAPTER  II. 

ANTICHRIST. 


Julian  instituted  a  Bacchic  procession  in  Con- 
stantinople.   He  sat  in  a  chariot  drawn  by  white 


Antichrist.  257 

mules.  He  held  a  golden  thyrsus  in  his  right 
hand,  crowned  with  a  cedar-cone,  the  symbol  of 
fertility,  and  in  the  other  a  cup,  entwined  with 
ivy.  The  sun's  rays  falling  on  its  crystal  sides 
were  reflected  with  blinding  whiteness,  and  it 
seemed  that  the  cup  was  full  of  sunlight  up  to  the 
brim.  Tame  panthers,  sent  to  him  from  the  island 
of  Serendib,  walked  beside  the  chariot.  Bac- 
chantes sang,  clanging  their  cymbals,  and  waving 
lighted  torches,  and  through  the  smoke  could  be 
seen  youths  with  fauns'  horns  fastened  to  their 
foreheads,  pouring  wine  into  cups  from  a  flagon. 
They  jostled  each  other,  laughing,  and  often  the 
purple  stream  fell  past  the  cup  on  the  naked, 
round  shoulder  of  a  Bacchante,  and  was  scattered 
in  spray.  A  fat-paunched  old  man  riding  an  ass, 
— the  court  treasurer,  a  great  rogue  and  bribe- 
taker,— represented  Silenus  splendidly. 

The  Bacchanals  sang,  pointing  to  the  young 
emperor: 

Bacchus,  thon  sittest  surrounded 

With  clouds  eternally  shining! 

A  thousand  voices  caught  up  the  song  from  the 
Antigone  of  Sophocles: 

Come  to  us,  oh  child  of  Zeus! 
(tome  to  us,  oh'god  that  leadest 
Forth  tho  choral  dances  flaming, 
Of  the  stars  at  midnight  shining ! 
With  gla  I  noise  and  songs  and  cries, 
And  the  maddened  throng  of  women, 
Full  of  thy  ecstatic  gladness. 
Joining  in  the  dance  of  Bacchus, 
Come  to  us,  oh  god  of  joy. 

Suddenly   Julian   heard   laughter,    a   woman's 
shriek,  and  an  old  man's  cracked  voice: 


258  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"Oh  my  little  duck!" 

It  was  the  priest,  a  roguish  old  man,  who  had 
pinched  the  naked  white  elbow  of  one  of  the 
Bacchanals.  Julian  frowned  and  called  the  old 
buffon  to  him.  The  old  man  ran  up  to  him,  dan- 
cing, and  limping. 

"My  friend,"  whispered  Julian  in  his  ear,  "pre- 
serve a  becoming  dignity,  befitting  your  age  and 
rank." 

But  the  priest  looked  at  him  with  eyes  so  devoid 
of  expression,  that  Julian  involuntarily  became 
silent. 

"I  am  a  simple  and  unlearned  man, — I  venture 
to  say  to  your  majesty, — I  understand  very  little 
about  philosophy.  But  I  honor  the  gods.  Ask 
whomever  you  please.  In  the  days  of  frightful 
Christian  persecutions,  I  remained  true  to  the 
gods.  But  all  the  same,  ha-ha-ha!  whenever  I  see 
a  pretty  girl,  I  cannot  help  it,  all  my  blood  begins 
to  jump.  I  am  only  an  old — " 

Seeing  the  displeasure  in  the  emperor's  face,  he 
suddenly  stopped,  took  on  an  air  of  great  dignity, 
and  looked  only  foolisher  than  before. 

"Who  is  that  girl?"  asked  Julian. 

"The  one  with  the  basket  of  consecrated  vessels 
on  her  head?" 

"Yes." 

"A  hetera,  from  the  Chalcedonian  suburb." 

"What?  is  it  possible  that  you  allowed  a  pros- 
titute to  touch  the  sacred  utensils  of  the  gods  with 
her  unclean  hands?" 

"But  you  yourself,  most  gracious  Augustus, 
ordered  the  procession  to  be  arranged.  Whom 
were  we  to  take?  All  the  respectable  ladies  are 


Antichrist.  259 

Galileans.  And  then  none  of  them  would  consent 
to  go  half  naked  in  a  game  like  this." 

"You  mean  that  they  are  all?" 

"No,  no,  how  would  that  be  possible?  There 
are  pretty  dancing  girls  here,  and  actresses,  and 
riders  from  the  hippodrome.  Look  how  gay  they 
are, — and  not  a  bit  ashamed.  The  people  like 
that.  You  can  trust  an  old  man  like  me!  That 
is  just  what  they  want.  And  that  one  is  a  respect- 
able lady." 

He  pointed  to  one  of  the  Bacchanals.  She  was 
a  Christian,  an  old  maid  in  search  of  a  husband. 
She  had  a  helmet-like  wig  made  of  the  then  fash- 
ionable German  hair  sprinkled  with  gold  dust. 
She  was  all  hung  with  precious  stones  like  an 
Oriental  idol,  and  had  a  tiger-skin  drawn  over  her 
withered  breast,  which  was  thickly  powdered.  She 
smiled  continually. 

Julian  began  to  examine  the  faces  of  the  people 
with  disgust. 

Tight-rope  dancers,  drunken  legionaries,  public 
women,  grooms  from  the  circus,  acrobats,  boxers, 
and  mimes  surged  round  him. 

The  procession  entered  a  side-street.  On  the 
way,  one  of  the  Bacchanals  ran  into  a  low  eating- 
house,  whence  came  a  heavy  smell  of  fish  fried  in 
rancid  butter.  The  Bacchanal  brought  three  oboli 
worth  of  greasy  cakes  from  the  shop,  and  began  to 
eat  them  ravenously,  licking  her  lips.  Afterward, 
when  she  had  finished,  she  wiped  her  hands  on  her 
purple  silk  dress,  which  had  been  given  out  from 
the  imperial  treasury  for  the  festival. 

The  chorus  of  Sophocles  soon  lost  interest. 
Hoarse  voices  began  to  break  forth  in  street  songs. 


260  Julian  the  Apostate. 

The  whole  thing  seemed  to  Julian  a  bad  and  silly 
dream. 

A  drunken  Celt  tripped  and  fell.  His  compan- 
ions stopped  to  pick  him  up.  In  the  crowd  they 
caught  two  pickpockets,  who  were  admirably  play- 
ing the  parts  of  antique  fauns.  The  thieves  de- 
fended themselves.  A  fight  began.  The  panthers 
behaved  best,  and  were  most  beautiful.  Finally 
the  procession  approached  the  temple. 

Julian  descended  from  his  chariot.  "Can  I," 
he  thought,  "stand  before  the  altar  of  Dionysus 
with  all  this  rabble?" 

A  cold  shudder  of  disgust  ran  over  his  body. 
He  looked  at  the  animal  faces,  savage,  worn  out 
with  debauchery,  looking  dead  through  their 
rouge  and  powder;  at  the  pitiful  nakedness  of  the 
human  bodies,  shapeless  through  anemia,  fasts, 
fear  of  the  Christian  Hell,  and  scrofula.  The  air 
of  the  stews  and  taverns  surrounded  him.  The 
breath  of  the  mob  reached  him,  through  the  scent 
of  aromatics,  mixed  with  a  smell  of  stale  mackerel, 
and  sour  wine.  The  papyrus  rolls  of  petitioners 
were  stretched  out  to  him  from  all  sides. 

"I  was  promised  a  place  as  groom;  1  renounced 
Christ;  and  did  not  get  it." 

"Do  not  forsake  us,  gracious  Csesar,  protect  us, 
have  mercy  on  us!  We  gave  up  the  faith  of  our 
fathers  to  please  you.  If  you  give  us  up,  what  is 
to  become  of  us?" 

"We  have  fallen  into  the  clutches  of  the  Devil!" 
cried  some  one,  in  despair." 

"Be  quiet,  you  fool!  whose  throat  are  you 
clutching?" 

Single  voices  were  drowned  in  the  chorus: 


Antichrist.  261 

And  the  maddened  throng  of  women, 
Full  of  thy  ecstatic  gladness, 
Joining  in  the  dance  of  Bacchus, 
Come  to  us,  oh  god  of  joy  1 

Julian  entered  the  temple,  and  looked  up  at  the 
marble  statue  of  Dionysus.  His  eyes  were  re- 
freshed after  the  sight  of  human  ugliness,  by  the 
proud,  pure  lines  of  the  godlike  body. 

He  no  longer  noticed  the  crowd.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  he  was  alone,  a  man  fallen  amongst  a 
herd  of  animals. 

The  emperor  proceeded  to  offer  the  sacrifice.  The 
people  watched,  wondering  at  seeing  the  Roman 
Caesar,  as  Pontif  ex  Maximus,  doing  zealously  what 
should  have  been  done  by  servants  and  slaves, — 
cutting  wood,  carrying  a  bundle  of  fuel  on  his 
shoulder,  bringing  water  from  the  fountain,  cleans- 
ing the  altar,  removing  the  ashes,  blowing  the  fire. 

A  tight-rope  dancer  remarked  in  a  whisper  to 
his  neighbor: 

"Watch  how  busy  he  is!    He  seems  to  love  his 


'He  does  indeed!"  remarked  a  boxer.  "Many  a 
one  is  not  so  fond  of  his  father  and  mother  as  he 
is  of  the  gods." 

"See  how  he  puffs  his  cheeks  out!"  softly 
laughed  another.  "Blow  away,  dear,  nothing  will 
come  of  it.  It  is  too  late,  your  uncle  Constantino 
put  the  fire  out!" 

The  flame  flared  up  and  illumined  the  emperor's 
face.  Dipping  a  consecrated  sprinkler  of  horse- 
hair in  a  flat  silver  bowl,  he  sprinkled  the  crowd 
with  holy  water.  Many  of  them  winked,  others 
shivered  as  they  felt  the  cold  drops  on  their  faces. 


262  Julian  the  Apostate. 

When  all  the  preparations  were  ended,  he  re- 
membered that  he  had  prepared  a  philosophical 
sermon  for  the  people. 

"People/'  he  began,  "the  god  Dionysus  is  the 
great  principle  of  freedom  in  your  hearts.  Diony- 
sus casts  away  all  the  bonds  of  the  earth,  laughs  at 
the  strong,  sets  the  slaves  free." 

But  the  high  priest  saw  such  bewilderment  on 
all  their  faces,  and  such  a  look  of  weariness,  that 
the  words  died  on  his  lips.  A  deadly  sickness  and 
disgust  at  the  people  arose  in  his  heart. 

He  gave  a  sign  for  the  shield-bearers  to  draw 
round  him.  The  crowd  gave  way,  dissatisfied  and 
disappointed. 

"I'll  go  straight  to  church  and  confess!  Per- 
haps I'll  get  absolution,"  said  one  of  the  fauns, 
wrathfully  tearing  off  his  false  beard  and  horns. 

"It  was  not  worth  damning  my  soul  for!"  mut- 
tered a  prostitute,  discontentedly. 

"Who  wants  your  soul?  They  would  not  give 
three  oboli  for  it!" 

They  have  deceived  us,"  cried  a  drunkard,  "they 
have  made  our  mouths  water  in  vain.  The  ac- 
cursed devils!" 

Entering  the  treasure-room  of  the  temple,  the 
emperor  washed  his  face  and  hands,  took  off  the 
splendid  robe  of  Dionysus,  and  put  on  a  simple 
Pythagorean  tunic,  fresh  and  white  as  snow. 

The  sun  set.  He  waited  for  darkness  to  come 
on,  to  return  to  the  palace  unobserved. 

Julian  passed  through  the  back  doors  of  the 
temple,  to  the  consecrated  grove  of  Dionysus. 
Here  silence  reigned.  Bees  were  humming,  and 
he  could  hear  the  murmuring  of  a  thin  stream  of 
clear  spring  water. 


Antichrist.  263 

He  heard  someone  walking.  Julian  turned.  It 
was  his  friend,  the  young  Alexandrian  physician 
Oribasius,  one  of  the  favorite  disciples  of  Maxi- 
mus. 

They  walked  together  along  the  grass-grown 
path.  The  sunbeams  darted  between  the  broad, 
golden  leaves  of  a  vine. 

"Look,"  said  Julian,  with  a  smile,  "great  Pan 
is  still  alive  here." 

Then  he  added  in  a  lower  voice,  with  drooping 
head: 

"Oribasius,  did  you  see?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  physician,  "but  perhaps 
you  were  to  blame  yourself,  Julian.  What  did  you 
want  to  do?" 

The  emperor  did  not  reply. 

They  came  to  a  ruin  overgrown  with  ivy.  It 
was  probably  a  little  shrine  of  Silenus.  Frag- 
ments of  stone  lay  among  the  weeds.  Only  one 
column  stood  straight  and  unbroken,  with  its  deli- 
cate capital,  like  a  white  lily.  A  ray  of  the  setting 
sun  gleamed  upon  it. 

They  sat  down  on  a  slab  of  marble.  There  was 
a  sweet  smell  of  mint,  southernwood  and  thyme. 
Julian  pushed  the  grass  aside,  and  pointed  to  a 
broken  antique  bas-relief: 

"Oribasius,  that  is  what  I  wanted  to  do!" 

An  ancient  Hellenic  "theoria"  was  represented 
on  the  bas-relief,  the  sacred  festal  procession  of 
the  Athenians. 

"That  is  what  I  wanted,— this  beauty!  Why  do 
men  become  uglier  from  day  to  day?  Where  are 
they — where  are  those  godlike  old  men,  stern 
heroes,  proud  youths,  pure  women,  in  white  flow- 
ing garments?  Where  is  all  this  strength?  Where 


264  Julian  the  Apostate. 

is  all  this  joy?  Galileans!  Galileans  what  have 
you  done?" 

His  eyes  full  of  endless  sadness  and  love,  he 
gazed  at  the  bas-relief,  pushing  the  long  grass 
aside. 

"Julian,"  asked  Oribasius  in  a  low  voice,  "do 
you  believe  in  Maximus?" 

"I  do  believe  in  him." 

"Altogether?" 

'•'What  do  you  mean?" 

Julian  looked  up  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"I  have  always  thought,  Julian,  that  you  are 
suffering  from  the  same  sickness  as  your  Galilean 
enemies." 

"What  sickness?" 

"Faith  in  miracles." 

Julian  shook  his  head: 

"If  there  are  no  miracles  and  no  gods,  all  my 
life  is  madness.  No,  let  us  not  speak  of  that.  But 
do  not  judge  me  too  severely  for  my  love  of  the 
ceremonies  and  auguries  of  antiquity.  I  know  not 
how  to  explain  it  to  you.  The  foolish  old  songs 
touch  me  to  tears.  I  love  evening  better  than 
noon,  autumn  better  than  spring.  I  love  all  that 
is  passing  away!  I  love  all  dying  colors.  What 
can  I  do,  my  friend?  The  gods  created  me  so! 
I  need  this  sweet  sadness,  this  magical,  golden  twi- 
light. There,  in  distant  antiquity,  there  is  some- 
thing unspeakably  beautiful  and  lovely,  something 
which  I  can  find  nowhere  else.  There  is  the  radi- 
ance of  the  evening  sun,  on  marble  yellow,  with 
age.  Do  not  rob  me  of  my  mad  love  for  something 
that  is  not.  It  is  more  beautiful  than  anything 
that  is!  Memory  has  a  greater  power  over  my  soul 
than  hope." 


Antichrist.  265 

He  grew  silent  and  thoughtful,  and  gazed  into 
the  distance  with  a  gentle  smile,  leaning  his  head 
against  the  unbroken  column  with  its  delicate  cap- 
ital, that  looked  like  a  sad  white  lily.  The  bright- 
ness of  the  setting  sun  had  already  died  away 
from  it. 

"You  speak  like  a  poet,"  replied  Oribasius,  "but 
a  poet's  dreams  are  dangerous  when  the  power  of 
the  whole  world  is  in  his  hands.  Must  not  he  who 
rules  over  men  be  something  more  than  a  poet?" 

"What  can  be  greater?" 

"A  creator  of  new  life." 

"The  new,  the  new,"  exclaimed  Julian.  "In 
truth,  I  sometimes  fear  your  new.  It  seems  to  me 
cold  and  cruel  as  death.  I  tell  you  my  heart  is 
with  the  old!  The  Galileans  are  also  ever  in  search 
of  something  new,  treading  the  old  sanctities 
under  foot.  Believe  me,  the  new  is  only  in  the  old, 
that  grows  not  old;  in  the  dead  that  is  immortal, 
in  the  despised,  in  the  beautiful!" 

And  he  rose  to  his  full  height,  with  pale  and 
proud  face  and  glowing  eyes: 

"They  think  that  Hellas  is  dead!  From  every 
corner  of  the  earth  black  monks,  like  crows,  alight 
on  the  white  marble  body  of  Hellas  and  hungrily 
peck  at  it  like  offal,  and  croak  in  their  gladness: 
'Hellas  is  dead!'  but  Hellas  is  not  dead,  and  will 
never  die!  Hellas  is  here,  in  our  hearts!  Hellas 
is  man's  godlike  beauty  on  earth.  Hellas  will 
awake,  and  then, — woe  to  the  Galilean  crows!" 

"Julian,"  replied  Oribasius,  "I  am  afraid  for 
you.  You  wish  to  accomplish  the  impossible. 
Crows  do  not  peck  at  a  living  body,  and  the  dead 
do  not  rise  again.  Caesar,  what  if  the  miracle  is 
not  accomplished?" 


266  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"I  fear  nothing.  My  destruction  will  be  my 
triumph,"  exclaimed  the  emperor,  with  such 
radiant  gladness  on  his  young  face  that  Oribasius 
started  involuntarily,  as  if  a  miracle  were  about  to 
take  place:  "Honor  to  the  Rejected,  honor  to  the 
Vanquished!" 

"But  before  perishing,"  he  added,  with  a 
haughty  smile,  "we  shall  struggle!  I  would  that 
my  enemies  were  worthy  of  my  hate,  not  merely 
of  my  contempt.  In  truth,  I  love  my  enemies, 
because  I  can  conquer  them,  and  feel  my  strength 
through  them.  The  joy  of  Dionysus  is  in  my 
heart!  Now  the  Titan  of  old  arises  and  bursts  his 
chains,  and  once  more  the  fire  of  Prometheus  is 
lit  upon  the  earth.  The  Titan  against  the  Gali- 
lean! I  come  to  give  men  liberty  and  joy  such  as 
they  have  never  dared  to  think  of.  Galilean,  thy 
kingdom  vanishes  like  a  shadow!  Rejoice,  peoples 
and  nations  of  the  earth;  I  am  the  messenger  of 
life,  I  am  the  liberator,  I  am.  Antichrist!" 


CHAPTER  III. 

IN  THE  MONASTERY. 

In  the  neighboring  monastery  with  its  closely 
shut  windows  and  doors,  the  monks  were  offering 
solemn  prayers.  From  afar  was  wafted  among 
them  the  noise  of  Bacchanalian  revelry.  To  drown 
it,  the  monks  united  their  voices  in  a  melancholy 
wail: 

"0  God,  why  hast  thou  cast  us  off  forever?  Why 


Iii  the  Monastery.  267 

doth  thine  anger  flame  against  the  sheep  of  thy 
pasture. 

"We  are  become  a  reproach  to  our  neighbors,  a 
scorn  and  derision  to  them  that  are  round  about 
us." 

The  ancient  words  of  the  prophet  Daniel:  ^Oh 
Lord  thou  has  given  us  up  to  the  king  of  the 
heathen;  more  crafty  than  all  the  earth/'  took  on 
a  new  and  unexpected  meaning. 

Late  at  night,  when  all  was  silent  in  the  streets, 
the  monks  dispersed  to  their  cells. 

Brother  Parthenius  could  not  sleep.  He  had  a 
pale,  mild  face.  In  his  large  eyes,  pure  as  a  mai- 
den's, there  was  an  expression  of  sorrowful  bewil- 
derment whenever  he  spoke  to  any  one.  And  he 
spoke  very  little  and  indistinctly,  as  if  with  a  great 
effort,  and  always  said  something  so  childlike  and 
unexpected  that  no  one  could  listen  to  him  with- 
out smiling.  Sometimes  he  burst  out  laughing, 
without  any  apparent  reason.  The  stern  monks 
asked:  "What  are  you  showing  your  teeth  about? 
Are  you  making  sport  for  the  devil?"  Then  he 
modestly  explained  that  he  was  laughing  "at  his 
own  thoughts."  This  convinced  the  monks  still 
more  that  Parthenius  was  demented. 

But  he  was  master  of  a  valuable  art:  he  could 
illuminate  the  title  pages  and  capital  letters  of  the 
manuscripts  with  cunning  patterns.  The  art  of 
Brother  Parthenius  brought  not  only  money  but 
also  consideration  and  honor  to  the  monastery, 
even  from  distant  lands.  To  be  sure,  he  did  not 
suspect  this,  and  if  he  could  have  understood  what 
human  fame  was,  he  would  have  been  frightened 
rather  than  gratified. 

His  artistic  work  which  sometimes  cost  him  im- 


268  Julian  the  Apostate. 

moderate  pains,  as  he  brought  the  smallest  details 
to  the  utmost  limit  of  perfection,  he  considered  to 
be  play,  rather  than  work;  he  did  not  say:  "1  am 
going  to  work,"  but  always  asked  the  chief  elder 
Pamphilus,  who  loved  him  tenderly:  "Father,  give 
me  your  blessing, — 1  am  going  to  play." 

When  he  had  finished  some  detail,  some  subtle 
and  delicate  tracery,  he  clapped  his  hands  and 
praised  himself. 

Brother  Parthenius  was  so  fond  of  solitude  and 
the  stillness  of  night,  that  he  learned  to  work  even 
by  lamp-light.  The  colors  came  out  unexpectedly, 
but  that  did  not  do  any  harm  to  his  fanciful  de- 
signs. 

In  a  little  cell  with  overhanging  walls,  Parthe- 
nius lit  his  lamp,  and  set  it  on  a  board  beside  his 
little  jars,  his  fine  brushes,  his  boxes  with  colors, 
cinnabar,  and  liquid  silver  and  gold.  He  crossed 
himself,  wet  a  brush  carefully,  and  began  to  draw 
the  tails  of  two  peacocks,  at  the  bottom  of  a  title 
page.  Golden  peacocks  on  a  green  ground  were 
drinking  at  a  sapphire  spring.  They  were  raising 
their  beaks  and  stretching  their  necks,  as  birds  do, 
when  they  drink. 

Other  parchment-rolls  lay  around  him,  with 
half-finished  patterns. 

It  was  a  whole  world,  supernatural  and  fascina- 
ting. Airy  creations  of  fabulous  architecture  were 
woven  round  the  text:  trees,  clusters,  and  fantastic 
animals.  Parthenius  thought  of  nothing  while  he 
was  doing  them,  but  a  bright  and  joyful  light  suf- 
fused his  pale  face.  Hellas,  Assyria,  Persia,  India, 
the  refinements  of  later  Byzantium  and  the  dim 
inspirations  of  the  coming  world, — all  peoples  and 
centuries  were  mingled  in  all  simplicity,  in  this 


In  the  Monastery.  26D 

monastic  paradise  glowing  with  the  changing  col- 
ors of  precious  stones,  round  the  capital  letters  of 
the  Holy  Scriptures. 

Here  was  a  representation  of  the  Baptism.  John 
the  Baptist  was  pouring  water  on  the  head  of 
Jesus  Christ.  And  beside  them  the  heathen  river- 
god  Jordan,  with  an  inclined  amphora  from  which 
water  streamed,  was  graciously  holding  a  towel, 
like  an  Eastern  host,  ready,  to  offer  it  to  the  Sa- 
viour after  the  Baptism. 

Brother  Parthenius  had  no  fear  of  the  antique 
gods.  They  pleased  him,  and  in  the  simplicity  of 
his  soul  he  held  that  they  had  long  ago  been  con- 
verted to  Christianity.  On  the  summits  of  moun- 
tains, he  invariably  placed  a  mountain-god,  in  the 
form  of  a  naked  youth. 

When  the  artist  drew  the  passage  of  the  Chil- 
dren of  Israel  across  the  Red  Sea,  a  woman  with  an 
oar  in  her  hand  represented  the  Sea,  while  a  nude 
male  figure,  with  the  inscription  "Bythos,"  was  to 
indicate  the  Abyss,  which  swallowed  up  Pharaoh; 
on  the  bank  sat  Desert,  in  the  form  of  a  sad 
woman,  in  a  tunic  of  sand  color. 

Here  and  there,  on  a  horse's  bent  neck,  in  the 
fold  of  a  long  robe,  or  in  the  pose  of  an  Oread,  re- 
clining on  her  elbow,  or  the  god  Jordan,  offering 
Jesus  the  towel,  the  true  Hellenic  grace,  the 
beauty  of  the  naked  body,  suddenly  shone 
through. 

That  night  his  "play"  did  not  hold  the  artist. 

His  ever  unwearying  fingers  trembled.  The 
wonted  quiet  smile  was  absent  from  his  lips.  He 
listened  a  moment,  then  opened  a  box  on  his  cy- 
press bench,  drew  forth  a  sharp  awl  for  book-bind- 
ing, crossed  himself,  and  shading  the  flame  of  his 


270  Julian  the  Apostate. 

lamp  with  his  transparent,  pink  hand,  softly  left 
the  cell. 

It  was  quiet  and  close  in  the  corridor.  The 
humming  of  flies  caught  in  spiders'  webs  was  the 
only  sound. 

Parthenius  entered  the  chapel.  A  single  lamp 
was  nickering  before  an  antique  diptych,  a  two- 
leaved  image  of  ivory.  Two  great  oblong  sapphires 
in  the  aureole  of  the  Infant  Jesus  whom  the 
Blessed  Virgin  held  in  her  arms,  had  been 
wrenched  out  by  the  heathens  and  restored  to  their 
former  place  in  the  temple  of  Dionysus. 

The  ugly  black  hollows  in  the  ivory,  which  age 
had  lightly  touched  with  yellow,  seemed  to  the 
artist  Parthenius  like  wounds  in  the  living  body. 
"No,  I  cannot!"  he  whispered,  and  approached  his 
lips  to  the  Infant  Jesus'  little  hand,  "I  cannot; 
better  that  I  should  die!"  The  sacrilegious  wounds 
in  the  ivory  tortured  him  terribly,  and  aroused 
him  more  than  any  assault  on  a  living  body. 

In  a  corner  of  the  church,  he  found  a  rope  lad- 
der. The  monks  used  it  to  light  the  lamps  in  the 
dome  of  their  church. 

With  this  ladder,  he  went  to  the  dark  narrow 
passage  which  ended  at  the  outer  door. 

The  red-cheeked  brother  Choricius  who  kept 
the  keys  was  snoring  in  the  straw. 

Parthenius  slipped  past  him  like  a  shadow.  The 
lock  on  the  door  opened  with  a  metallic  click. 
Choricius  half-raised  himself,  blinked,  and  then 
sank  back  again  on  the  straw. 

Parthenins  climbed  over  the  low  fence.  The 
street  in  that  out-of-the-way  quarter  was  deserted. 
A  full  moon  was  shining  in  the  sky.  The  sea  mur- 
mured. 


In  the  Monastery.  271 

He  went  round  to  that  side  of  the  temple  of 
Dionysus  which  lay  in  the  shadow,  and  threw  his 
rope  ladder  so  that  one  end  of  it  caught  in  the 
bronze  acrotere  at  the  corner  of  the  roof.  The 
ladder  hung  from  the  upraised  paw  of  a  Sphinx. 
The  monk  climbed  up  on  the  roof. 

Somewhere  in  the  distance  the  cocks  were  be- 
ginning to  crow.  A  dog  barked. 

Then  again  silence;  only  the  murmur  of  the  sea. 

He  drew  up  the  ladder,  and  descended  to  the 
interior  of  the  temple. 

A  majestic  stillness  reigned  there.  The  eyes  of 
the  god,  two  great  oblong  sapphires,  shone  with  a 
strange  life  in  the  moonlight,  gazing  straight  at 
the  monk. 

Parthenius  shuddered  and  crossed  himself. 

He  climbed  on  the  altar.  It  was  not  long  since 
the  high  priest  Julian  had  blown  its  embers  into 
flame.  Parthenius  felt  the  warmth  of  the  ashes 
under  his  feet.  The  monk  drew  the  awl  from  his 
bosom.  The  god's  eyes  gleamed  close  to  his  face. 
The  artist  saw  the  careless  smile  of  Dionysus,  and 
his  marble  body 'flooded  with  moonlight,  and  he 
thrilled  with  delight  at  the  beauty  of  the  antique 
god. 

Then  he  set  to  work,  trying  to  take  out  the  sap- 
phyres  with  the  point  of  his  awl.  Often  his  hand 
strove  almost  against  his  desire  to  spare  the  en- 
chanting marble. 

Finally  the  work  was  finished.  The  blinded 
Dionysus  looked  threateningly  at  the  monk  out 
of  the  black  hollows  of  his  eyes. 

Then  terror  overcame  Parthenius.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  some  one  was  watching  him.  He 
leaped  down  from  the  altar,  ran  to  his  rope-ladder, 


272  Julian  the  Apostate. 

climbed  hastily  up,  and  lowered  it  on  the  other 
side,  not  even  fastening  it  properly,  so  that  when 
he  was  near  the  bottom  it  slipped  and  fell.  Pale, 
disheveled,  with  stained  garments,  but  still  clasp- 
ing the  sapphires  firmly  in  his  hand,  he  stole  across 
the  street  into  the  monastery  like  a  thief. 

The  doorkeeper  did  not  awake.  Parthenius, 
opening  the  door,  slipped  through  and  entered  the 
chapel.  Looking  at  the  image,  he  felt  calmer.  He 
tried  to  fit  the  sapphire  eyes  of  Dionysus  into  the 
dark  hollows.  They  slipped  back  into  their  old 
places  in  the  most  perfect  way,  and  once  more 
glowed  with  a  warm  light  in  the  aureole  of  the 
Infant  Jesus. 

Parthenius  returned  to  his  cell,  put  his  lamp 
out,  and  threw  himself  down  on  his  couch.  Sud- 
denly, in  the  darkness,  shrinking  together,  and 
covering  his  face  with  his  hands,  he  laughed  a 
noiseless  laugh,  like  a  child  who  has  played  some 
prank,  and  is  glad  to  have  played  it,  but  is  also 
afraid  that  he  will  be  found  out.  He  went  to  sleep 
with  that  laugh  in  his  heart. 

The  morning  waves  of  the*  Propontis  were 
sparkling  beyond  the  trellis  of  his  little  window 
when  Parthenius  awoke. 

The  doves  were  cooing  on  his  window-sill  and 
rustling  their  soft  blue-grey  wings. 

The  laughter  still  remained  in  his  heart.  He 
ran  to  his  work-table,  and  looked  with  delight  at 
the  unfinished  arabesques. 

It  was  a  picture  of  paradise.  Adam  and  Eve 
were  sitting  in  a  meadow. 

A  ray  of  the  rising  sun  fell  through  the  window, 
straight  on  his  arabesques,  and  they  shone  with  a 
heavenly  brightness,  all  gold  and  purple  and  azure. 


The  Conversion  of  Hecebolus.         273 

Parthenius,  as  he  worked,  never  noticed  that  he 
was  giving  the  naked  body  of  Adam  all  the  antique 
Olympian  beauty  of  glad  Bacchus — Dionysus. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
THE  CONVERSION  OF  HECEBOLUS. 

The  famous  sophist  Hecebolus,  the  court 
teacher  of  rhetoric,  had  begun  to  ascend  the  lad- 
der of  imperial  preferment  at  the  lowest  round. 
First  he  was  a  servant  in  the  temple  of  Astarte  at 
Hieropolis.  At  sixteen,  he  stole  some  of  the  treas- 
ures of  the  temple  and  ran  away  to  Constantino- 
ple. He  passed  through  all  the  knaveries  and 
filth  of  the  metropolis,  walked  in  the  highway  with 
devout  pilgrims  and  with  the  lawless  herd  of  Din- 
dymene's  worshippers,  —  the  many-breasted  god- 
dess whom  the  rabble  delighted  in,  when  she  was 
carried  through  the  villages  on  an  ass. 

Finally  he  stumbled  into  the  school  of  the  rhet- 
orician Proeresias,  and  soon  became  a  teacher  of 
oratory  himself. 

In  the  last  years  of  Constantine  the  Great,  when 
the  Christian  religion  became  the  fashion  at  court, 
Hecebolus  was  converted  to  Christianity.  People 
of  a  spiritual  calling  felt  a  special  leaning  towards 
him.  He  paid  them  in  the  same  way. 

Hecebolus  had  often  changed  his  creed,  accord- 
ing as  the  wind  blew,  but  always  exactly  at  the 
right  time.  From  Arianism,  he  became  Orthodox, 
and  returned  again  from  Orthodoxy  to  Arianism, 
and  each  change  was  a  step  on  the  ladder  of  pre- 


27i  Julian  the  Apostate. 

ferment.  Persons  of  a  spiritual  vocation  helped 
him  up  quietly,  and  he  in  turn  aided  them  to 
climb. 

His  hair  was  beginning  to  be  touched  with 
grey,  his  obesity  was  becoming  more  and  more  a 
comforting  presence,  his  wise  words  grew  even 
more  insinuating  and  suave,  and  his  cheeks  were 
bright  with  the  freshness  of  vigorous  old-age.  His 
eyes  were  caressing,  and  somewhat  lachrymose,  but 
now  and  then  there  flashed  up  in  them  a  piercing 
and  evil  mockery,  a  cold  and  daring  soul.  Then 
he  swiftly  lowered  his  lids  and  the  spark  died  out 
again. 

The  whole  exterior  of  the  famous  sophist  wore 
a  cloak  of  ecclesiastical  unction. 

He  fasted  scrupulously,  but  at  the  same  time 
was  a  fine  gastronomist.  The  delicate  fast  dishes 
on  his  table  were  more  carefully  planned  than  the 
dishes  of  a  festal  banquet,  just  as  Hecebolus'  mo- 
nastic jests  were  sometimes  keener  and  more 
pointed  than  the  mockery  of  open  heathenism.  At 
his  table  was  served  a  famous  cooling  drink  made 
of  beetroot  juice  and  spices:  many  people  said  that 
it  was  better  than  wine.  For  fast  days,  instead  of 
ordinary  wheaten  bread,  he  ate  a  kind  of  cake 
made  from  a  grain  of  the  desert,  on  which,  tradi- 
tion alleged,  Saint  Pachomius  had  lived  in  Egypt. 

Evil  tongues  whispered  that  Hecebolus  was  a 
lover  of  women.  In  Constantinople  they  told  the 
following  anecdote.  A  young  wife  acknowledged 
to  her  confessor  that  she  was  unfaithful  to  her 
husband.  "That  is  a  great  sin — but  who — my 
daughter?"  "Hecebolus,  Father!"  The  priest's 
face  cleared:  "Hecebolus.  Ah!  Well,  he  is  a  holy 


The  Conversion  of  Hecebolus.         275 

man,  and  devoted  to  the  Church.     Repent,  my 
daughter!    God  will  forgive  you!" 

Of  course  these  stories  were  mere  gossip.  Nev- 
ertheless, in  the  clean-shaven  dignified  face  of  the 
official,  his  thick  red  lips  looked  somewhat  out  of 
place,  even  though  he  pressed  them  together  with 
an  expression  of  monastic  modesty. 

Women  were  devoted  to  him. 

Sometimes  Hecebolus  disappeared  suddenly  for 
several  days.  No  one,  or  almost  no  one  knew  any- 
thing of  that  side  of  his  life.  He  knew  how  to 
hide  his  trail.  Neither  his  servants  nor  his  slaves 
accompanied  him  in  those  enigmatic  journeys.  The 
secret  was  preserved  inviolably. 

After  a  few  days,  he  returned  as  if  nothing  had 
happened,  refreshed  and  calm.  Only  his  wise 
speeches  became  even  more  insinuating,  his  grey 
hair  more  venerable,  his  monastic  unction  more 
majestic. 

Under  the  emperor  Constantius,  he  received  the 
position  of  court  orator,  with  a  splendid  salary,  a 
senatorial  lateclave,  and  a  blue  sash  of  honor,  the 
distinctive  mark  of  superior  rank. 

He  aimed  yet  higher. 

But  at  the  very  moment  when  Hecebolus  was 
preparing  to  take  the  final  step,  an  unexpected 
blow  overtook  him.  Constantius  died,  and  Julian, 
the  enemy  of  the  Church,  ascended  the  throne. 
Hecebolus  did  not  lose  his  presence  of  mind.  He 
did  what  all  the  rest  did,  but  more  cleverly  than 
the  rest,  and  neither  too  soon  nor  too  late. 

Once,  in  the  first  days  of  his  power,  Julian  ar- 
ranged a  theological  discussion  at  the  palace.  Cse- 
sarius  of  Cappadocia,  a  young  philosopher  and 
physician,  who  was  esteemed  by  all  for  his  probity 


276  Julian  the  Apostate. 

and  nobility,  and  brother  of  Basil,  the  famous 
Father  of  the  Church,  was  to  defend  the  Christian 
faith  against  the  emperor.  Julian  allowed  the  ut- 
most liberty  in  these  controversies,  and  even  pre- 
ferred to  be  answered  with  heat  and  passion,  in 
defiance  of  court  etiquette. 

The  discussion  grew  very  heated,  and  hosts  of 
sophists,  sages,  rhetoricians,  priests,  and  Church 
teachers  were  present. 

Generally  the  contest  had  to  give  way  and  yield, 
if  not  before  the  logic  of  the  Greek  philosopher,  at 
least  before  the  majesty  of  the  Roman  Emperor. 

This  time  things  went  otherwise.  Csesarius 
would  not  yield.  He  was  a  youth  with  a  girlish 
grace  in  his  movements,  with  silky  locks,  and  with 
a  steady  lucidity  in  his  eyes.  He  called  the  philos- 
ophy of  Plato  "the  subtle  wisdom  of  the  serpent," 
and  opposed  to  him  the  celestial  wisdom  of  the 
Gospel.  Julian  knitted  his  brows,  moved  in  his 
seat,  bit  his  lips,  and  could  hardly  restrain  him- 
self. 

Like  all  sincere  discussions,  the  discussion  led 
to  no  result. 

The  Emperor  left  the  assembly,  mastering  his 
feelings  with  a  philosophic  jest,  assumed  a  gentle 
look,  with  a  faint  shade  of  all-forgiving  sadness, 
but  in  reality  with  resentment  in  his  heart. 

And  just  at  that  moment,  the  court  orator  He- 
cebolus,  came  up  to  him.  Julian  considered  him 
an  enemy.  He  asked: 

"What  do  you  want?" 

Hecebolus  fell  on  his  knees  and  began  a  confes- 
sion of  repentance.  He  had  long  been  wavering, 
but  the  logic  of  the  emperor  had  finally  convinced 
him.  He  abjured  the  dark  Galilean  superstition, 


The  Conversion  of  llecebolus.          277 

and  his  heart  returned  to  the  memories  of  child- 
hood, to  the  bright  Olympian  gods. 

The  emperor  lifted  the  old  man  to  his  feet,  and 
in  his  emotion  could  not  speak,  but  only  clasped 
him  to  his  breast  with  all  his  strength,  and  kissed 
his  plump,  smooth-shaven  cheeks  and  thick  red 
lips. 

His  eyes  sought  Caesarius,  to  enjoy  his  discom- 
fiture. 

For  several  days,  Julian  kept  Hecebolus  close  to 
him,  and  told  of  his  marvelous  conversion  in  season 
and  out  of  season.  He  rejoiced  over  him,  like  a 
priest  over  a  well-fed  victim,  like  a  child  over  a 
new  toy,  like  a  youth  over  his  first  love. 

The  emperor  wished  to  give  the  new  convert  a 
considerable  post  at  court.  Hecebolus  flatly  re- 
fused, esteeming  himself  unworthy  of  that  honor. 
He  preferred  to  prepare  his  soul  for  Hellenic  piety 
by  long  trials  and  penances,  to  wash  himself  clean 
of  the  pollution  of  the  Galileans  by  service  in  some 
of  the  ancient  Olympian  temples.  Then  Julian 
appointed  him  high  priest  of  Bithynia  and  Paph- 
lagonia.  Those  who  filled  this  office  were  called  by 
the  heathen  "archpriest." 

The  Archpriest  Hecebolus  governed  two  popu- 
lous Asiatic  provinces,  and  setting  out  on  his  new. 
path,  he  walked  along  it  with  his  habitual  success. 
He  took  part  in  the  conversion  of  many  Galileans 
to  Hellenism. 

Hecebolus  became  the  chief  priest  in  the  temple 
of  the  Phoenician  goddess  Astarte-Atagartis  whom 
he  had  served  in  his  childhood.  The  temple  was 
half  way  between  Chalcedon  and  Nicomedia,  on  an 
eminence  which  overlooked  the  waves  of  the  Pro- 
pontis.  The  village  was  called  Gargaria.  Pilgrims 


278  Julian  the  Apostate. 

came  hither  from  the  ends  of  the  earth,  suppliants 
to  Aphrodite-Astarte  the  goddess  of  love  and 
death. 


CHAPTER  V. 
THE  VESSEL  OF  CLAY. 

In  one  of  the  wide  halls  of  the  palace  of  Con- 
stantinople, Julian  was  occupied  with  the  affairs 
of  the  empire. 

Between  the  porphyry  columns  on  the  terrace 
which  looked  out  over  the  Bosphorus,  shone  the 
pale  blue  sea.  The  young  emperor  was  seated 
before  a  round  marble  table  heaped  with  papyrus 
and  parchment  rolls.  Shorthand  writers,  bending 
their  heads,  wrote  rapidly  with  their  creaking 
Egyptian  calami.  Some  of  the  officials  looked 
sleepy.  They  were  not  used  to  such  early  rising. 
At  a  little  distance  among  the  columns,  Hecebolus 
and  the  official  Junius  Mauricus  were  exchanging 
remarks;  the  lean  official  had  a  wise  but  bilious 
face,  with  disagreeable  folds  round  his  thin  lips. 

In  the  midst  of  universal  superstition,  this 
sceptic  and  court  dandy  was  one  of  the  last  follow- 
ers of  the  great  Lucian,  the  satirist  of  Samos,  the 
author  of  biting  dialogues  in  wbich  he  makes  such 
pitiless  sport  of  all  the  holy  things  of  Olympus 
and  Golgotha,  of  all  the  traditions  of  Kome  and 
Hellas. 

In  an  even  voice  Julian  was  dictating  an  epistle 
to  Arsacius,  high  priest  of  Galatia: 

"Do  not  permit  the  priests  to  visit  the  theaters, 


The  Vessel  of  Clay.  279 

to  drink  in  taverns,  to  engage  in  degrading  trades. 
Honor  the  obedient;  chastise  the  disobedient. 
Establish  houses  of  refuge  in  every  city,  where 
travelers  may  profit  by  our  benevolence, — not  only 
people  of  the  Hellenic  faith,  but  all  who  have 
need  of  help.  We  assign  for  yearly  distribution  in 
Galatia  thirty  thousand  measures  of  wheat,  and 
sixteen  thousand  csesti  of  wine.  Distribute  the 
fifth  part  of  these  supplies  among  the  poor  who 
live  near  the  temples,  and  the  rest  among  pilgrims 
and  beggars.  It  is  shameful  that  the  Hellenes 
should  want,  when  there  is  not  a  single  beggar 
amongst  the  Jews,  and  when  the  godless  Galileans 
feed  their  own  people  and  ours  as  well.  They 
begin  like  people  who  entice  children  with  sweet- 
meats; they  begin  with  hospitality  and  acts  of 
mercy,  with  invitations  to  their  love-feasts,  which 
they  call  'Agapae,'  and  little  by  little  inveigling 
those  who  trust  them  into  their  godless  communi- 
ties, they  end  with  fasts,  castigations,  mortification 
of  the  flesh,  the  pains  of  hell,  madness,  and  a  ter- 
rible death  in  torments.  This  is  the  habitual  path 
of  those  haters  of  humanity  who  call  themselves 
Christians  and  lovers  of  their  neighbors.  Con- 
quer them  by  acts  of  mercy,  in  the  name  of  the 
eternal  Olympian  gods.  Announce  throughout 
all  cities  and  villages  that  this  is  my  heartfelt  con- 
cern. If  I  learn  that  you  have  so  acted,  I  shall 
continue  to  reward  you.  Make  it  clear  to  all  our 
citizens  that  I  am  ready  to  help  them  in  all  things, 
at  any  hour.  But  if  they  wish  to  gain  my  especial 
favor,  let  them  bow  to  Dindymene,  the  Mother  of 
the  Gods,  and  let  all  nations  and  people  do  honor 
to  her,  for  ever  and  ever." 

The  last  words,  he  wrote  with  his  own  hand. 


280  Julian  the  Apostate. 

At  this  point  they  brought  breakfast,  barley 
bread,  fresh  olives  and  light  white  wine.  He  ate 
and  drank  without  leaving  his  work.  But  sud- 
denly he  turned,  and  pointing  to  a  golden  vessel 
containing  olives,  he  asked  a  favorite  old  slave, 
whom  he  had  brought  from  Gaul,  and  who  always 
served  the  emperor  at  table: 

"Why  this  gold?  Where  is  the  old  earthen 
one?" 

"Forgive  me,  master,  it  is  broken." 

"In  pieces?" 

"No;  only  the  edge  of  the  rim." 

"Bring  it,  then." 

The  slave  ran  to  bring  the  clay  vessel,  with  the 
broken  rim. 

"That  is  nothing!"  said  Julian,  "it  will  serve  a 
long  time  yet!" 

He  smiled: 

"My  friends,  I  have  observed  that  things  that 
have  been  broken  serve  longer  and  better  than 
new  ones.  I  admit  that  it  is  a  weakness  of  mine, 
that  I  get  wonderfully  accustomed  to  old  things. 
They  have  a  special  charm  for  me,  like  old  friends. 
I  am  afraid  of  novelty,  and  I  detest  changes.  I 
am  always  sorry  for  the  old,  even  if  it  is  bad.  The 
old  is  comfortable  and  pleasant." 

Julian  laughed  gaily  at  his  own  words: 

"See  what  philosophic  thoughts  are  sometimes 
inspired  by  a  broken  plate!" 

Junius  Mauricus  twitched  the  hem  of  Hece- 
bolus'  garment: 

"Did  you  hear?  His  whole  nature  is  expressed 
in  that.  He  cares  as  much  for  his  broken  plates  as 
for  his  half -dead  gods.  That  is  to  decide  the  fate 
of  the  world." 


The  Vessel  of  Clay.  281 

Julian  grew  enthusiastic.  From  edicts  and 
laws,  he  passed  on  to  thoughts  of  the  future. 

In  all  the  cities  of  the  empire  he  proposed  to 
found  schools  and  professorships  for  the  promul- 
gation and  explanation  of  the  Hellenic  dogmas, 
to  establish  forms  of  prayers,  epithemes,  philo- 
sophical discourses,  resorts  for  lovers  of  the  per- 
fect, and  for  those  who  gave  themselves  up  to 
meditation. 

"What  next?"  whispered  Junius  Mauricus  to 
Hecebolus,  "monasteries  in  honor  of  Aphrodite 
and  Apollo.  From  hour  to  hour,  it  is  getting 
worse!" 

"And  all  this,  my  friends,  we  shall  accomplish 
— with  the  help  of  the  gods,"  concluded  the  Em- 
peror. "The  Galileans  wish  to  assure  the  world 
that  mercy  is  their  peculiar  heritage.  But  mercy 
belongs  to  all  philosophers,  whatever  gods  they 
may  worship.  I  have  come  to  preach  a  new  love 
to  the  world,  not  slavish  and  superstitious,  but 
free  and  joyful  as  the  heaven  of  the  Olympians!" 

Julian  embraced  all  who  were  present  in  one 
inquiring  glance.  He  did  not  find  what  he  sought, 
on  the  faces  of  the  officials. 

A  deputation  of  Christian  teachers  of  rhetoric 
;  and  philosophy  entered  the  hall. 

!N"ot  long  before,  an  edict  forbidding  Galilean 
teachers  to  lecture  on  ancient  Greek  oratory  had 
been  promulgated.  The  Christian  orators  had 
either  to  renounce  their  faith  or  close  their  schools 

One  of  their  representatives  approached  Au- 
gustus with  a  scroll  in  his  hand.  He  was  a  lean, 
absent-minded  man,  the  image  of  a  bald  old 
parrot;  he  was  accompanied  by  two  awkward  rosy- 
cheeked  pupils. 


282  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"Have  mercy  on  us,  beloved  of  the  gods!" 

"What  is  your  name?"  asked  the  Emperor. 

"Papirianus,  a  Roman  citizen." 

"Well,  understand  me,  good  Papirianus.  I  wish 
you  no  ill.  On  the  contrary,  remain  Galileans." 

The  old  man  fell  at  the  Emperor's  feet,  and 
embraced  them. 

"I  have  been  teaching  grammar  for  forty  years. 
I  know  Homer  and  Hesiod  as  well  as  anybody." 

"What  is  your  petition?"  asked  Julian,  froM'n- 
ing. 

"I  have  six  children,  your  majesty,  small, 
smaller,  smallest.  Do  not  take  away  the  last  piece 
of  bread  from  them!  My  pupils  love  me.  Ask 
them!  Have  I  done  anything  wrong?" 

Papirianus  could  not  proceed  from  emotion, 
but  pointed  to  his  two  pupils,  who  were  trying 
hard  to  hide  their  hands.  They  stood  staring, 
their  faces  growing  redder  and  redder. 

"No,  my  friends,"  the  Emperor  interrupted,  in 
a  low,  firm  voice.  "The  law  is  just.  I  find  it 
absurd  that  the  Christian  teachers  of  rhetoric,  in 
explaining  Homer,  should  deny  the  very  gods 
whom  Homer  honored.  If  you  think  that  our 
sages  did  no  more  than  weave  clever  tales,  then 
you  had  better  go  to  your  churches  and  explain 
Matthew  and  Luke!  Observe,  Galileans,  that  I 
do  this  for  your  own  well-being." 

Someone  in  the  crowd  of  rhetoricians,  muttered 
half  audibly: 

"For  our  own  good, — you  starve  us  to  death!" 

"You  fear  to  defile  yourselves  by  touching  meat 
or  water  that  has  been  offered  in  sacrifice,  Chris- 
tian teachers,"  continued  the  Emperor  unmoved, 
"why  do  you  not  fear  to  defile  yourselves  with  what 


The  Vessel  of  Clay.  283 

is  far  more  dangerous  than  meat  or  water? — the 
false  wisdom  of  the  heathen?  You  say:  'Blessed 
are  the  poor  in  spirit!'  Then  be  poor  in  spirit! 
Or  do  you  think  that  I  do  not  know  your  teach- 
ings? I  know  them  better  than  any  of  you!  I 
see  in  the  Galilean  commandments  depths  that 
you  never  dreamed  of.  But  to  everyone  his  own. 
Leave  us  our  vain  wisdom,  our  poor  science  of 
words.  What  have  you  to  do  with  these  tainted 
springs?  You  have  a  higher  wisdom.  Our  king- 
dom is  of  earth.  You  have  a  heavenly  kingdom. 
Think:  a  heavenly  kingdom!  That  is  not  a  little 
for  such  humble  and  disinterested  people  as  you 
are!  Dialectics  can  only  awaken  a  taste  for  free- 
thinking  and  heresy.  Better  be  simple  as  chil- 
dren. Is  not  the  blessed  ignorance  of  the  fisher- 
men of  Capernaum  higher  than  all  the  Platonic 
dialogues?  All  the  wisdom  of  the  Galileans  con- 
sists in  the  one  thing:  'Believe.'  If  you  were 
true  Christians,  you  would  bless  our  law,  rhetori- 
cians. And  it  is  the  flesh,  not  the  spirit,  which 
now  rises  up  in  you,  the  flesh  for  which  sin  is 
sweet.  That  is  all  that  I  have  to  say  to  you,  and 
I  hope  that  you  will  justify  me,  and  admit  that 
the  Koman  emperor  takes  more  care  for  the  salva- 
tion of  your  souls  than  you  do  yourselves!" 

Julian  passed  through  the  crowd  of  unhappy 
rhetoricians,  calm  and  satisfied  with  his  speech. 

Papirianus  falling  on  his  knees  as  before,  tore 
his  thin  grey  locks. 

"Wherefore?  Oh  Queen  of  heaven,  wherefore 
such  a  punishment?" 

"The  two  pupils,  seeing  their  teacher's  sorrow, 
nibbed  their  bulging  eyes  with  their  red,  awkward 
hands. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MARANATHA. 

Julian  remembered  the  endless  disputes  of  the 
Arians  and  the  Orthodox,  under  Constantius.  He 
bethought  himself  to  take  advantage  of  their  en- 
mity, and  decided  to  summon  a  Church  Council, 
after  the  manner  of  Constantine  and  Constantius, 
his  predecessors. 

Once,  in  conversation,  he  announced  to  his 
astonished  friends  that  instead  of  employing  force 
and  persecution,  he  wished  to  give  the  Galileans 
full  religious  liberty,  and  to  recall  the  Donatists, 
the  Semiarians,  the  Marcionites,  the  Montanists, 
the  Cecilians,  and  other  heretical  sects,  exiled  by 
order  of  the  Councils  under  Constantine  and  Con- 
stantius. He  was  convinced  that  there  was  no 
better  method  of  destroying  the  Christians. 

"You  will  see,  my  friends,"  said  the  Emperor, 
"that  when  they  all  return  to  their  former  places, 
such  hatreds  will  spring  up  among  the  followers 
of  brotherly  love  that  they  will  tear  each  other  like 
wild  beasts  let  loose  from  their  cages  into  the 
arena,  and  that  they  will  bring  the  name  of  their 
Teacher  into  dishonor  sooner  than  I  could,  even 
by  the  most  savage  persecutions  and  punish- 
ments." 

Julian  sent  edicts  and  letters  to  every  corner  of 

the  Eoman  Empire,  inviting  the  exiled  sectarians 

to  return  without  fear.    The  completest  freedom 

of  faith  was  announced.    At  the  same  time,  the 

284 


Maranatha.  285 

wisest  teachers  from  among  the  Galileans  were  in- 
vited to  the  Emperor's  court  at  Constantinople  to 
deliberate  on  ecclesiastical  matters.  The  greater 
part  of  those  who  were  invited  knew  nothing  of 
the  purpose,  constitution  and  powers  of  the  assem- 
bly, since  all  this  was  set  forth  in  the  Emperor's 
letters  with  skilful  ambiguity.  Many  of  them, 
suspecting  some  wile  of  the  Apostate,  failed  on  the 
plea  of  sickness  or  distance  to  appear  in  answer  to 
the  invitation. 

The  azure  of  the  morning  seemed  dark  and 
sombre  in  comparison  with  the  blinding  bright- 
ness of  the  double  colonnade  of  white  marble, 
which  surrounded  the  great  court,  the  so-called 
Atrium  of  Constantine.  White  doves  disappeared 
in  the  blue  like  flakes  of  snow,  with  a  glad  flutter- 
ing of  their  silky  wings.  Aphrodite  Calipyge  stood 
in  the  center  of  the  court,  in  the  bright  spray  of  a 
fountain.  The  wet  marble  shone  in  the  sun,  like  a 
living  body.  The  monks,  passing  by  her,  turned 
away  and  tried  not  to  look,  but  she  was  in  their 
midst,  crafty  and  tender. 

Julian  had  not  chosen  this  strange  meeting- 
place  for  the  Galileans  without  a  hidden  purpose. 

The  dark  robes  of  the  monks  seemed  even  darker 
here,  the  bitter  faces  of  the  heretics,  drawn  with 
suffering,  seemed  even  more  gloomy.  They  glided 
among  the  sunlit  marble  pillars,  casting  formless 
shades  of  blackness  as  they  went. 

They  all  felt  constrained.  And  each  of  them 
tried  to  assume  an  air  of  equanimity,  even  confi- 
dence, pretending  not  to  recognize  in  his  neighbor 
an  enemy,  who  had  ruined  his  life,  or  whose  life  he 
had  ruined;  hut  at  the  same  time  they  cast  curious 
malignant  glances  at  each  other. 


286  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"Holy  Mother  of  God!  What  is  that?  Where 
are  we?"  cried  the  plump  old  Sebastian  bishop 
Eustathius  in  dismay;  "Let  me  depart,  soldiers!" 

"Gently,  gently,  my  friend,"  said  the  chief  of 
the  shield-bearers  persuasively,  politely  barring 
him  from  the  door. 

"I  cannot  breathe  in  this  sink  of  heresy!  Let 
me  go!  let  me  go!" 

"According  to  Caesar's  command,  all  who  have 
entered  the  Council  must  remain,"  continued  the 
barbarian  Dagalaiphus,  the  chief  of  the  shield- 
bearers,  restraining  him  with  gentle  insistence. 

"This  is  no  Council!"  cried  Eustathius,  in  anger, 
"it  is  a  den  of  thieves!" 

A  few  wits  were  to  be  found  among  the  Gali- 
leans, who  made  sport  of  the  provincial  exterior, 
asthmatic  speech,  and  strong  Armenian  accent  of 
Eustathius.  He  lost  his  head  completely,  lapsed 
into  silence  and  shrunk  away  into  a  corner,  repeat- 
ing in  despair: 

"Oh  Lord,  why  am  I  here?  Oh  Lord,  why  am  I 
here?" 

Evander  of  Nicomedia  also  repented  that  he  had 
come  and  brought  Juventinus  the  disciple  of  Didy- 
mus,  who  had  just  arrived  in  Constantinople. 

Evander  was  one  of  the  greatest  dogmatists  of 
his  time,  a  man  of  penetrating  and  profound  intel- 
lect. He  had  ruined  his  health  and  grown  old  be- 
fore his  time  over  his  books;  his  sight  had  grown 
weak,  and  in  his  kind,  short-sighted  eyes,  there 
dwelt  an  expression  of  perpetual  weariness.  End- 
less heresies  occupied  his  mind,  and  gave  him  no 
rest.  They  tormented  him  in  his  waking  hours, 
and  haunted  him  in  his  dreams,  but  at  the  same 
time  they  fascinated  him  by  their  subtilty  and  re- 


Maranatha.  287 

fmements.  Evander  had  collected  them  for  many 
years,  in  a  huge  manuscript,  entitled:  "Against 
Heresies,"  with  as  much  zeal  as  some  amateurs  col- 
lect marvels  of  art.  He  traced  them  out  with  hun- 
gry delight,  even  inventing  non-existent  ones,  and 
the  more  he  attacked  them,  the  deeper  he  became 
involved  in  them.  He  often  prayed  desperately  to 
God  to  give  him  simple  faith,  but  God  had  given 
him  no  simplicity. 

In  his  everyday  life,  he  was  modest,  confiding 
and  helpless  as  a  child.  It  cost  the  unscrupulous 
no  trouble  to  deceive  Evander.  Mockers  recounted 
innumerable  anecdotes  of  his  absent-mindedness. 
Plunged  in  his  theological  dreams,  the  bishop  was 
perpetually  finding  himself  in  impossible  situa- 
tions. 

And  it  was  through  absent-mindedness  that  he 
had  wandered  into  this  awkward  assembly,  with- 
out due  thought  as  to  whither  and  why  he  was 
going,  in  part  allured  by  the  hope  of  finding  some 
new  heresy. 

And  now  he  kept  frowning  in  dismay,  and  shad- 
ing his  weak  eyes  with  his  weak  hand  against  the 
intense  brightness  of  the  sun  on  the  marble.  He 
felt  ill  at  ease,  and  his  one  desire  was  to  get  away 
as  quickly  as  possible  to  his  half -darkened  room, 
to  his  books  and  manuscripts. 

Evander  kept  Juventinus  close  to  him,  and 
guarded  him  against  delusion  by  attacks  on  the 
various  heresies. 

Through  the  midst  of  the  hall  passed  a  short 
powerful  man,  with  high  cheek-bones  and  an  au- 
reole of  downy  grey  hair  round  his  head. 

He  was  the  septuagenarian  bishop  Purpurius, 


288  Julian  the  Apostate. 

an  African  Donatist  whom  Julian  had  recalled 
from  exile. 

Neither  Constantine  nor  Constantius  had  been 
able  to  crush  the  Donatist  heresy.  Eivers  of  blood 
had  been  shed  because  some  fifty  years  before  Do- 
natus  had  been  irregularly  consecrated  instead  of 
Cecilianus,  or  Cecilianus  instead  of  Donatus, — no 
one  was  quite  certain  which.  But  the  Donatists 
and  Cecilians  massacred  each  other,  and  no  one 
could  foresee  any  end  to  this  fratricidal  quarrel 
which  had  arisen  not  even  from  a  difference  of 
opinion  but  only  from  a  difference  of  names. 

Juventinus  noticed  that  in  passing  Purpurius,  a 
Cecilian  bishop  brushed  the  Donatist's  garment 
with  the  hem  of  his  chasuble.  The  latter  started 
aside  with  an  exclamation,  and  lifting  his  robe 
with  two  fingers,  with  an  expression  of  disgust, 
shook  it  several  times  in  such  a  way  as  to  attract 
general  attention,  to  rid  himself  of  the  polluting 
touch  of  the  Cecilian  bishop. 

Evander  told  Juventinus  that  when  a  Cecilian 
inadvertently  entered  a  Donatist  church,  they 
drove  him  out  again,  and  afterwards  carefully 
washed  the  flagstones  on  which  he  had  stood  with 
salt  water. 

An  African  of  huge  stature  followed  in  Purpu- 
rius'  footsteps,  with  a  dog's  fidelity.  He  was  the 
bishop's  body-guard,  dusky  and  repellent,  with 
squat  nose,  and  thick  lips,  and  a  club  in  his  mus- 
cular hands.  This  African  deacon,  Leo,  belonged 
to  the  sect  of  the  Self -torturers,  who  inhabited  the 
villages  of  Gaetulia.  They  were  called  the  Cir- 
cumcelliones.  Roaming  about  armed,  they  offered 
money  to  the  people  they  met  on  the  high  roads, 
with  the  threat:  "Kill  us,  or  we  will  kill  you!"  The 


Maranatha.  289 

Circumcelliones  wounded  and  burned  themselves, 
and  threw  themselves  into  the  sea,  in  the  name  of 
Christ.  But  they  never  hanged  themselves,  be- 
cause Judas  Iscariot  was  hanged.  Sometimes  whole 
crowds  of  them  cast  themselves  over  a  precipice, 
singing  psalms  the  while.  They  affirmed  that  sui- 
cide for  the  glory  of  God  cleansed  the  soul  from 
all  sins.  The  common  people  honored  them  as 
martyrs.  Before  dying,  they  gave  themselves  up 
to  debauchery,  eating,  drinking  and  the  lusts  of 
the  flesh.  Many  of  them  would  not  use  swords  be- 
cause Christ  forbade  the  use  of  the  sword,  but  then 
they  used  great  clubs,  according  to  the  Scripture, 
against  heretics  and  the  heathen,  with  a  quiet  con- 
science. When  they  shed  blood,  they  cried  out: 
"Glory  to  God!"  The  peaceable  inhabitants  of  the 
African  cities  and  villages  feared  this  pious  cry 
more  than  the  war-trumpets  of  their  enemies  or 
the  roaring  of  lions. 

The  Donatists  considered  the  Circumcelliones 
as  their  soldiers  and  guards.  And  as  the  Gaetulian 
peasants  did  not  understand  much  of  their  theo- 
logical quarrels,  the  Donatists  carefully  pointed 
out  to  them  whom  they  should  slay  "according  to 
the  Scripture." 

Evander  called  Juventinus'  attention  to  a  hand- 
some youth  with  a  tender  and  innocent  face,  like  a 
girl's.  He  was  a  Cainite. 

"Blessed  are  our  proud  and  unsubdued  brothers, 
Cain,  Ham  and  the  dwellers  in  Sodom  and  Go- 
morra!"  thus  preached  the  Cainites,  "they  were  of 
the  family  of  the  higher  Sophia,  the  Hidden  Wis- 
dom. Come  unto  us,  all  ye  who  are  persecuted,  all 
ye  who  revolt,  all  ye  who  have  been  overcome. 
Blessed  is  Judas!  He  alone  of  the  Apostles  was  in- 


290  Julian  the  Apostate. 

itiated  into  the  Higher  Knowledge,  the  Gnosis. 
He  sold  Christ,  that  Christ  might  die  and  rise 
again,  because  Judas  knew  that  the  death  of  Christ 
would  save  the  world.  Those  who  are  initiated  in 
our  wisdom  should  break-through  all  limits, should 
dare  all,  despise  property,  and  trample  all  desire 
for  it  under  foot,  and  giving  themselves  up  to  all 
sins  and  all  the  lusts  of  the  flesh,  they  should  at- 
tain a  blessed  loathing  of  the  flesh  and  the  highest 
spiritual  purity!" 

"Look,  Juventinus,  there  is  a  man  who  consid- 
ers himself  incomparably  higher  than  the  archan- 
gels and  seraphim,"  said  Evander,  pointing  to  a 
well-formed  young  Egyptian,  who  stood  apart 
from  all  the  rest,  with  a  smile  of  high  intelligence 
and  irony  on  his  thin  lips,  which  were  rouged  like 
a  prostitute's.  He  was  dressed  in  the  very  latest 
Byzantine  fashion.  On  his  white,  delicate  hands 
were  costly  rings.  He  was  Cassiodorus,  the  Valen- 
tinian. 

"The  Orthodox,  the  Psychics,"  affirmed  the 
haughty  Valentinian,  "have  a  soul  (psyche)  like 
the  rest  of  mankind,  but  they  have  no  spirit 
(pneuma),  as  we  have.  We  alone  the  initiates  in 
the  Gnosis  and  the  Godlike  Pleroma,  are  worthy 
to  call  ourselves  men.  All  the  rest  are  swine,  or 
dogs." 

Cassiodorus  instructed  his  pupils  with  a  fasci- 
nating smile: 

"You  must  know  all,  but  none  must  know  you. 
Deny  the  Gnosis  in  the  presence  of  the  profane. 
Keep  silent  and  despise  all  proofs.  Despise  con- 
fessions of  faith  and  martyrdom.  Love  silence  and 
secrecy.  Be  intangible  and  incomprehensible  for 
your  enemies,  like  the  disembodied  powers.  The 


Maranatha.  201 

common  Christians,  the  Psychics,  need  good  works 
for  their  salvation.  He  who  has  the  higher  wis- 
dom, the  Gnosis,  has  no  need  of  good  works.  We 
are  the  children  of  light.  They  are  the  children 
of  darkness.  We  fear  no  sin,  for  we  know  that 
to  the  body  belong  the  things  of  the  body,  and 
to  the  spirit  the  things  of  the  spirit.  We  are  at 
such  a  height  that  we  cannot  fall,  whatever  sins 
we  may  commit.  Our  hearts  remain  sinless  in  the 
midst  of  sensual  indulgence,  as  pure  gold  loses  not 
its  lustre,  even  in  the  dirt!" 

Here  also  Juventinus  saw  a  suspicious-looking, 
squint-eyed  old  man,  with  the  face  of  a  sensual 
faun.  He  was  Prodicus  the  Adamite,  who  affirmed 
that  his  teaching  restored  the  primitive  innocence 
of  Adam.  The  naked  Adamites  celebrated  their 
mysteries  in  heated  churches,  which  they  called 
Edens.  Like  our  first  parents  before  the  fall,  they 
were  not  ashamed  of  their  nakedness,  affirming 
that  all  men  and  women  among  them  possessed 
the  highest  spiritual  perfection.  But  the  purity 
of  these  paradisiacal  assemblies  was  doubted. 

Close  to  the  Adamite  Prodicus,  a  pale,  grey- 
haired  woman  sat  on  the  ground;  she  wore  a 
bishop's  gown,  and  had  a  stern  handsome  face;  her 
eyelids  were  half-closed  from  weariness.  She  was 
the  prophetess  of  the  Montatists.  Yellow-faced, 
lean  eunuchs  guarded  her.  They  watched  her 
with  devoted  eyes,  and  called  her  the  Heavenly 
Dove.  Amongst  the  hot  ruins  of  Phrygia,  near 
the  deserted  city  of  Pepusa,  they  sat  in  crowds 
with  their  eyes  fixed  on  a  point  of  the  horizon 
where  the  Saviour  should  appear.  On  misty  even- 
ings, they  saw  the  glory  of  God  and  the  New  Jeru- 


292  Julian  the  Apostate. 

salem  descending  to  the  earth,  in  the  red  and  gold 
of  sunset  among  the  clouds  above  the  grey  plain. 

And  so  year  after  year  passed,  and  they  died  in 
the  hope  that  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  would  at 
last  descend  on  the  burned  ruins  of  Pepusa. 

Sometimes  raising  her  weary  lids,  and  straining 
her  dim  gaze  into  the  distance,  the  prophetess 
muttered  in  Syrian: 

"Maranatha,  Maranatha! — the  Lord  cometh, 
the  Lord  cometh!" 

And  the  pale  eunuchs  bowed  over  her,  listening. 

Juventinus  listened  to  Evander's  explanations, 
and  thought  that  it  was  all  like  some  strange, 
painful  dream.  His  heart  was  wrung  by  bitter 
impotent  pity. 

All  became  silent.  Their  eyes  turned  in  one  di- 
rection. At  the  other  end  of  the  Atrium,  the  em- 
peror Julian  stood  on  a  marble  platform. 

His  face  was  full  of  self-confidence.  He  wished 
to  give  it  an  impassive  expression,  but  at  times  a 
flash  of  malicious  triumph  blazed  up  in  his  eyes. 
He  wore  the  simple  white  robe  of  an  ancient  phil- 
osopher. 

"Elders  and  teachers!"  he  began,  turning  to- 
wards  the  assembly;  "We  have  thought  good  to  ex- 
tend all  possible  tolerance  and  mercy  to  our  subjects 
who  confess  the  faith  of  the  Crucified  Galilean.  We 
must  feel  pity  for  those  who  have  gone  astray,  and 
bring  the  wayward  to  the  truth  not  by  blows  and 
bodily  punishments  but  by  persuasions.  And  so 
desiring  to  establish  peace  throughout  all  lands 
which  have  been  disturbed  by  the  quarrels  of  the 
Church,  we  have  called  you  together,  wise  men  of 
the  Galileans.  We  hope  that  under  our  patronage 
and  protection  you  will  show  an  example  of  those 


Maranatha.  293 

high  virtues  which  are  befitting  to  your  spiritual 
rank  and  wisdom." 

His  speech  had  been  prepared  beforehand,  and 
he  spoke  with  graceful,  flowing  gestures,  like  a 
practised  orator  before  a  popular  assembly.  But 
through  his  words,  full  of  benignant  expressions, 
hidden  suggestions  of  malice  now  and  then  ap- 
peared. Amongst  other  things,  he  showed  that  he 
had  not  yet  forgotten  the  foolish  and  degrading 
quarrels  of  the  Galileans,  in  the  famous  Council 
of  Milan,  under  Constantius.  And  it  was  with  bit- 
ter mockery  that  he  further  spoke  of  certain  law- 
less people  who,  regretting  that  they  no  longer  had 
the  power  to  persecute,  torture  and  slay  their 
brothers,  now  stirred  up  and  inflamed  the 
rabble,  pouring  oil  on  the  flames  and  filling  the 
world  with  fratricidal  hate.  They  were  the  ene- 
mies of  the  human  race,  the  authors  of  the  worst 
disorder  and  anarchy.  And  he  concluded  his  ora- 
tion with  these  unexpected  words,  whose  irony 
was  felt  by  all: 

"We  have  recalled  your  exiled  brothers  who 
were  banished  under  Constantine  and  Constantius, 
wishing  to  assure  liberty  to  all  the  citizens  of  the 
Roman  Empire.  Live  in  peace,  Galileans,  accord- 
ing to  the  commandment  of  your  Teacher.  And 
for  the  perfect  restoration  of  amity,  we  charge  you, 
wise  teachers,  forgetting  all  enmities,  and  uniting 
in  brotherly  love,  to  come  to  an  ecclesiastical 
unity,  and  to  establish  one  general  confession  of 
faith  for  all  the  Galileans.  And  to  this  end  we 
have  summoned  you  hither,  to  our  residence,  ac- 
cording to  the  example  of  our  predecessors  Con- 
stantine and  Constantius.  Judge  and  decide,  in 
virtue  of  the  power  vested  in  you  by  the  Church. 


294  Julian  the  Apostate. 

\Ve  shall  withdraw,  to  leave  you  fuller  liberty,  and 
shall  await  your  wise  decision." 

Before  the  members  of  the  assembly  had  time 
to  come  to  themselves,  or  to  dispute  this  strange 
oration,  Julian,  accompanied  by  his  friends  the 
philosophers,  left  the  Atrium  and  disappeared. 

All  kept  silent.  Some  one  sighed  heavily.  In 
the  stillness  was  heard  only  the  joyful  fluttering 
of  the  doves'  silky  wings  in  the  sky,  and  the  splash- 
ing of  the  fountain  on  the  marble. 

Suddenly  on  the  platform  from  which  the  em- 
peror had  spoken  appeared  the  good-natured  old 
man  with  the  provincial  exterior  and  Armenian 
accent,  at  whom  everybody  had  been  laiighing. 
The  emperor's  speech  had  offended  the  old  Sebas- 
tian bishop.  His  face  was  red  and  there  was  a  wild 
light  in  his  eyes.  Eustathius  stood  up  before  the 
assembly  full  of  spiritual  zeal  and  forgetting  his 
former  timidity: 

"Fathers  and  brothers!"  he  exclaimed,  and  in 
his  voice  there  was  so  much  decision  that  no  one 
now  thought  of  laughing; 

"Let  us  separate  in  peace!  He  who  has  sum- 
moned us  hither  to  insult  and  delude  us,  knows 
neither  the  canons  of  the  Church  nor  the  ordi- 
nances of  the  Councils.  He  detests  the  name  of 
Christ!  Let  us  not  make  sport  for  our  enemies; 
let  us  refrain  from  angry  words.  I  adjure  you  in 
the  name  of  the  Most  High  God,  let  us  depart  in 
silence!" 

He  pronounced  these  words  in  a  loud,  clear 
voice,  raising  his  eyes  to  an  upper  gallery,  shaded 
from  the  sun  by  purple  curtains.  There,  in  the 
background  between  the  columns,  appeared  the 
emperor  and  his  suite.  A  murmur  of  astonish- 


Maranatha.  295 

ment  and  fear  passed  through  the  crowd.  Julian 
looked  straight  in  Eustathius'  face.  The  old  man 
met  his  gaze,  and  did  not  give  way.  The  emperor 
grew  pale. 

At  the  same  moment,  the  Donatist  Purpurius. 
roughly  pushed  the  bishop  aside,  and  took  his 
place  on  the  dais. 

"Do  not  listen  to  him,"  cried  Purpurius,  "do 
not  depart,  and  do  not  traverse  Cassar's  will!  The 
Cecilians  are  wroth  that  he,  our  deliverer — " 

"No,  no,  brothers!"  interrupted  Eustathius,  in  a 
voice  of  entreaty. 

"We  are  not  your  brothers!  Depart,  accursed! 
We  are  the  clean  wheat  of  God,  you  are  the  chaff,, 
ordained  by  God  for  the  burning." 

And  pointing  to  the  Emperor,  the  Apostate, 
Purpurius  continued  in  a  triumphant,  resonant 
voice,  as  if  offering  him  the  praises  of  the  Church: 

"Behold,  there  is  our  Savior!  Look  upon  him  I 
Glory,  glory  to  the  blessed  and  all-wise  Augustus  I 
He  has  set  his  foot  on  the  asp  and  the  basilisk,  and 
trodden  under  foot  the  lion  and  the  serpent,  and 
the  angels  are  commanded  to  keep  him  in  all  his 
ways.  Glory  to  Julian!" 

Then  the  assembly  began  to  seethe  with  com- 
motion. Some  maintained  that  they  should  follow 
the  counsel  of  Eustathius,  and  disperse,  while  oth- 
ers wished  to  speak,  eager  to  take  advantage  of 
the  one  chance  of  their  lives  to  address  a  Church 
assembly.  Their  faces  began  to  glow,  and  their 
voices  were  raised  angrily. 

"Let  one  of  the  Cecilian  bishops  look  into  our 
church  now,"  continued  Purpurius,  triumphantly, 
"and  we  will  lay  our  hand  on  his  head,  not  to  con- 
secrate a  pastor,  but  to  break  his  skull!" 


296  Julian  the  Apostate. 

Many  quite  forgot  the  purpose  of  the  assembly, 
and  entered  into  abstruse  theological  discussions. 
They  gathered  audiences  around  them,  and  tried 
to  draw  them  away  from  others  and  win  over  the 
unexperienced.  Triphon,  a  follower  of  Basilides, 
who  had  come  from  Egypt,  was  surrounded  by  a 
crowd  of  curious  auditors,  to  whom  he  was  show- 
ing an  amulet  of  transparent  chrysolite,  with  the 
inscription:  "Abraxes." 

"He  who  understands  the  word  'Abraxes,'  "  said 
Triphon:  "will  receive  the  highest  liberty;  he  will 
become  immortal  and  will  remain  unstained  by 
sin,  even  though  indulging  in  all  sins.  Abraxes 
expresses  in  letters  the  numbers  of  the  celestial 
spheres,  365.  Above  the  three  hundred  and  sixty- 
fifth  sphere,  above  the  hierarchies  of  Eons,  angels 
and  archangels,  there  is  a  certain  Nameless  Dark- 
ness, more  lovely  than  all  lights,  motionless,  un- 
born." 

"There  is  a  nameless  and  motionless  darkness  in 
your  ignorant  head !"  cried  an  angry  Arian  bishop, 
coming  near  Triphon. 

The  Gnostic,  according  to  his  habit,  immedi- 
ately became  silent,  compressing  his  lips  with  a 
contemptuous  smile,  half-closing  his  eyes  and  rais- 
ing  a  warning  finger: 

"Wisdom,  wisdom,"  he  murmured  half-audibly, 
and  disappeared  as  if  he  had  slipped  through  the 
Arian's  fingers. 

The  prophetess  of  Pepusa  with  her  adoring  eu- 
nuchs supporting  her  arms,  raised  herself  lo  her 
full  height,  terrible,  pale,  disheveled,  with  dazed, 
half-mad  eyes,  and  cried  out  in  an  inspired  voice, 
seeing  and  hearing  nothing: 


Maranatlia.  297 

"Maranatha!  Maranatha!  The  Lord  cometh! 
The  Lord  cometh!" 

The  pupils  of  the  youth  Epiphanias,  who  was 
half  heathen  demigod,  half  Christian  martyr,  dei- 
lied  in  the  prayer  meetings  of  Cephalonia,  cried 
out: 

"Koinonia,  kai  isotes!  Brotherhood  and  equal- 
ity! There  are  no  other  laws.  Destroy,  destroy 
everything!  Let  property  and  women  be  held  in 
common  for  all,  like  the  grass,  the  water,  the  air, 
and  the  sun!" 

The  serpent-worshipping  Ophites  raised  up  their 
bronze  cross,  entwined  with  a  tame  little  snake  of 
the  Nile.  ..! 

"The  wisdom  of  the  serpent,"  they  said,  "gives 
men  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil.  This  is  the 
Savior,  Ophiomorphos,  in  the  form  of  the  Serpent. 
Fear  not  but  hear  Him,  and  taste  of  the  forbidden 
fruit,  and  ye  shall  be  as  gods  in  very  deed!" 

A  Marcosian,  a  scented  dandy  and  seducer,  rais- 
ing with  the  skill  of  a  juggler,  a  transparent  glass 
cup  filled  with  water,  invited  the  curious: 

"Look,  look!  A  miracle!  The  water  will  boil, 
and  become  blood!" 

The  Colarbasians  were  quickly  counting  on 
their  fingers,  and  proving  that  all  the  Pythagorean 
numbers,  all  the  secrets  of  heaven  and  earth,  were 
included  in  the  letters  of  the  Greek  alphabet: 

"Alpha,  Omega,  the  beginning  and  the  end. 
And  between  them  the  Trinity,  beta,  gama,  delta, 
the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Spirit.  See  how 
simple  it  is!" 

The  Fabionites,  the  Carpocratian  gluttons,  the 
debauched  Barbelonites,  preached  such  disgusting 
doctrines  that  devout  folk  spat,  and  stopped  their 


298  Julian  the  Apostate. 

ears.  Many  acted  on  their  hearers  through  that 
unintelligible  force  of  attraction  which  is  exer- 
cised on  the  imagination  by  anything  miraculous 
and  insane. 

Every  one  of  them  was  convinced  that  he  was 
right.  And  each  was  against  all  the  rest. 

Even  the  insignificant  sect  of  the  Eogatians, 
who  were  lost  in  an  out-of-the-way  corner  of  Af- 
rica, asserted  that  when  Christ  returned  to  the 
earth,  He  would  find  the  true  Gospel  among  them 
alone; — in  a  few  villages  of  Cassarean  Mauritania, 
and  nowhere  else,  throughout  all  the  world. 

Evander  of  Nicomedia,  forgetting  all  about  Ju- 
ventinus,  had  hardly  time  to  note  the  new  and 
hitherto  unrecorded  shades  of  heresy  which  he  dis- 
covered, on  his  wax  tablets,  with  all  the  passion  of 
a  collector  of  curios. 

At  the  same  time,  his  eyes  full  of  deep  and  sat- 
isfied malice,  the  young  emperor,  surrounded  by 
sages  in  the  white  robes  of  old,  looked  down  from 
the  marble  gallery  at  the  maddened  throng.  Here 
were  his  friends:  Proclus  the  Pythagorean,  Nym- 
phidianus,  Eugenius  Priscus,  Edesias,  his  old 
teacher  lamblichus,  the  godlike  and  the  worthy 
Hecebolus,  archpriest  of  Dindymene.  They  neither 
laughed  nor  jested.  Their  faces  were  impassive. 
They  behaved  like  worthy  men  of  wisdom.  Only 
from  time  to  time  smiles  of  pity  appeared  on  their 
closely  compressed  lips.  It  was  the  triumph  of 
Hellenic  wisdom.  They  looked  down,  as  the  gods 
look  down  on  struggling  mortals,  and  as  the  lovers 
of  the  circus  look  down  at  the  arena,  where  wild 
beasts  fight  and  slay  each  other. 

They  were  cool  and  comfortable  in  the  shadow 
of  the  purple  curtains. 


Maranatha.  299 

But  below,  the  Galileans,  covered  with  sweat, 
anathematized  and  preached. 

In  the  midst  of  the  uproar,  the  effeminate  young 
Cainite,  with  his  handsome,  soft  face,  and  sad, 
childishly  bright  eyes,  managed  to  mount  thj  plat- 
form, and  to  exclaim  with  a  voice  so  full  of  unc- 
tion, that  all  turned,  grew  silent,  and  listened  to 
his  blasphemy: 

"Blessed  are  those  who  bow  not  down  before 
God!  Blessed  are  Cain,  Ham,  Judas,  and  the 
dwellers  in  Sodom  and  Gomorra!  Blessed  be  their 
Father,  the  angel  of  Darkness  and  the  Abyss!" 

The  furious  African,  Purpurius,  who  had  been 
trying  to  make  himself  heard  for  an  hour,  and  to 
utter  what  was  in  his  heart,  rushed  at  the  Cainite, 
and  raised  a  hairy,  muscular  hand,  "to  close  his 
impious  mouth." 

They  held  him  back,  and  tried  to  bring  him  to 
reason: 

"Father,  this  is  unworthy  of  you!" 

"Loose  me!  Loose  me!"  cried  Purpurius,  break- 
ing away  from  them,  "I  will  not  endure  his  filth! 
Take  that,  brood  of  Cain!" 

And  the  Donatist  spat  in  the  Cainite's  face. 

All  became  confusion.  A  fight  would  have 
begun,  if  the  Roman  shield-bearers  had  not  has- 
tened to  them.  Separating  the  Galileans,  the  sol- 
diers reproved  them: 

"Here  in  the  palace,  is  no  place  for  this!  Or 
have  you  not  churches  enough  to  fight  in?" 

They  lifted  Purpurius,  and  would  have  removed 
him. 

He  cried  out: 

"Leo,  deacon  Leo!" 

His    body-guard    pushed    the    soldiers    aside, 


300  Julian  the  Apostate. 

knocked  two  of  them  down,  set  Purpurius  free, 
whirling  the  terrible  Circumcellian  club  in  the  air, 
above  the  heads  of  the  heresiarchs. 

"Glory  to  God!"  howled  the  African,  marking  a 
victim  for  his  wrath.  Suddenly  the  club  fell  help- 
lessly from  his  hands.  All  were  turned  to  stone. 
In  the  silence  resounded  the  piercing  cry  of  a 
crazy  eunuch  of  the  Pepusan  prophetess.  He  fell 
on  his  knees,  and  with  a  face  drawn  with  terror, 
pointed  to  the  platform: 

"The  devil!  the  devil!  look,  the  devil  himself!" 
On  the  raised  marble  platform,  above  the  crowd 
of  the  Galileans,  with  his  arms  crossed  on  his 
breast,  calm  and  majestic  in  the  white  robe  of  an 
ancient  philosopher,  stood  the  Emperor  Julian. 
His  eyes  shone  with  an  unconcealed  and  terrible 
joy.  At  that  moment,  the  Apostate  appeared  to 
many  as  terrible,  crafty  and  strong,  as  the  Ad- 
versary. 

"It  is  thus,  Galileans,  that  you  fulfill  the  law  of 
love!"  he  spoke,  addressing  the  assembly,  cowed 
with  terror.  "I  see,  I  see  now,  what  means  your 
loving  kindness  and  tender  mercy!  In  very  truth, 
wild  beasts  are  more  pitiful  than  you,  oh  teachers 
of — brotherly  love.  To  speak  in  the  words  of  your 
own  Teacher:  'Woe  unto  you,  lawyers!  for  ye  have 
taken  away  the  key  of  knowledge;  ye  entered  not 
in  yourselves  and  them  that  were  entering  in  ye 
hindered.  Woe  unto  you,  Scribes  and  Pharisees!'" 


CHAPTER  VII. 
CHRIST  AND  THE  OLYMPIANS. 

When  Julian  left  the  Atrium  of  Constantine 
and  descended  the  steps  of  the  broad  staircase,  he 
turned  to  offer  sacrifice  into  a  little  temple  of  For- 
tune near  the  palace;  Maris,  the  grey-haired 
bishop  of  Chalcedon,bent  with  old  age,  approached 
him.  Maris'  old  eyes  trickled  with  rheum.  A  boy 
led  the  blind  man  by  the  hand.  The  stair  led  to 
the  square  of  the  Augusteum.  A  crowd  gathered 
below.  The  bishop  stopped  the  Emperor,  with  a 
majestic  gesture,  and  addressed  him  in  a  firm, 
clear  voice: 

"Give  ear,  all  ye  peoples,  tribes,  tongues,  men  of 
all  ages,  all,  as  many  as  are  and  shall  be  upon  the 
earth!  Give  ear,  ye  higher  Powers,  ye  angels,  by 
whom  will  soon  be  accomplished  the  overthrow  of 
the  torturer!  Not  the  king  of  the  Amorites  shall 
be  laid  low,  nor  Og,  the  king  of  Bashan,  but  the 
Serpent,  the  Apostate,  the  great  Mind,  the  rebel- 
lious Assyrian,  the  common  enemy  and  foe,  accom- 
plishing many  lies  and  threats  upon  the  earth,  and 
setting  himself  up  on  high.  Hear,  oh  ye  heavens, 
and  inspire  the  earth!  And  do  thou  Caesar,  give 
ear  to  my  prophecy,  for  God  Himself  speaketh  by 
my  lips.  His  word  enkindles  my  heart,  and  I  can- 
not keep  silent.  Thy  days  are  numbered.  N"ot 
many  days,  and  thou  shaft  perish  and  pass  away. 
Like  dust,  scattered  by  the  wind,  like  dew,  like  the 
hissing  of  an  arrow,  like  the  noise  of  thunder,  like 

301 


302  Julian  the  Apostate. 

the  lightning  flash,  thou  shalt  vanish.  The  Cas- 
talian  spring  shall  be  dried  up  for  ever,  and  men 
shall  come  and  make  a  mock  of  it.  Apollo  shall 
become  once  more  a  voiceless  idol,  Daphne  a  tree, 
lamented  in  a  fable,  and  the  grass  of  the  tomb 
shall  grow  over  the  ruins  of  the  temples.  Oh  pol- 
lution of  Sennacherib!  Thus  we  make  it  known, 
we,  Galileans,  men  despised,  worshipping  One  Cru- 
cified, disciples  of  the  fishermen  of  Capernaum, 
and  ourselves  fools.  Worn  out  by  long  fasting, 
half-dead,  we  keep  watch  in  vain,  and  speak 
empty  words  at  the  times  of  our  sacred  vigils,  and 
yet  we  overcome  you:  ' Where  are  your  books? 
where  are  your  catechisms?'  I  borrow  this  song 
of  victory  from  one  of  our  men  of  little  wisdom. 
Give  hither  thy  royal  and  sophistic  speech,  thy 
irrefutable  syllogisms  and  forms  of  logic!  Let  us 
see  how  our  unlearned  fishermen  speak!  And  let 
David  sing  once  more  with  courage,  he  who  laid 
low  the  mighty  Goliath  with  his  sacred  stones, 
and  overcame  many  by  his  meekness,  and  by  the 
sweetness  of  his  harping  healed  Saul,  tormented 
by  the  evil  spirit.  We  thank  Thee,  oh  Lord,  for 
now  Thy  Church  is  purified  by  persecution.  The 
Bridegroom  cometh!  The  wise  virgins  shall  light 
their  lamps.  Don  the  priest's  mighty  and  unpol- 
luted robe,  the  Christ,  our  righteousness!" 

The  blind  man  pronounced  the  last  words  in  a 
chanting  voice,  like  the  words  of  a  solemn  service. 
The  crowd  answered  him  with  a  murmur  of  appro- 
bation. Some  cried  out: 

"Amen!" 

"Have  you  finished  ?"  asked  Julian,  quietly. 

The  Emperor  heard  the  long  harangue  to  the 
end  with  imperturbable  coolness,  as  if  the  matter 


Christ  and  the  Olympians.  303 

did  not  concern  him  at  all.  Only  at  the  corners 
of  his  mouth  a  fine  smile  sometimes  flickered. 

"Here  are  my  hands,  persecutor!  Bind  me!  lead 
me  away  to  death!  Lord,  I  accept  the  crown!" 

The  bishop  raised  his  dim,  blind  eyes  to  the  sky. 

"Do  not  think,  good  man,  that  I  am  giving  you 
over  to  death,"  said  Julian;  "you  are  mistaken!  I 
send  you  away  in  peace.  In  my  heart  there  is  no 
anger  against  you." 

"What  is  it?  what  is  it?  what  does  he  say?" 
they  asked,  in  the  crowd. 

"Delude  me  not.  I  will  not  renounce  the 
Christ!  Depart,  enemy  of  mankind!  Execution- 
ers, lead  me  to  death.  I  am  ready!" 

"There  are  no  executioners,  my  friend.  Here 
are  people  as  simple  and  kind  as  you  are.  Calm 
yourself!  Life  is  more  irksome  and  commonplace 
than  you  think.  I  have  listened  to  you  with  in- 
terest, as  an  admirer  of  all  eloquence,  even  Gali- 
lean. And  there  was  something  of  everything  in 
it,  the  pollution  of  Sennacherib,  and  the  king  of 
the  Amorites,  and  the  stones  of  David,  and  Go- 
liath! There  is  no  simplicity  in  your  speeches. 
Bead  our  Demosthenes  and  Plato,  and  most  of  all 
Homer.  They  are  really  simple  as  children  or 
gods.  And  learn  from  them  mighty  peace,  Gali- 
leans. God  is  not  in  the  whirlwind,  but  in  the 
stillness.  That  is  all  my  lesson,  that  is  all  my  re- 
venge,— since  you  yourself  demanded  punish- 
ment." 

"May  the  Lord  strike  you  down,  Blasphemer!" 
Maris  was  beginning  again. 

"God  in  His  wrath  will  not  make  me  blind, — or 
make  you  see!"  answered  Augustus. 

"I  thank  my  God  for  my  blindness,"  cried  the 


304  Julian  the  Apostate. 

old  man,  "it  keeps  my  eyes  from  beholding  the  ac- 
cursed face  of  the  Apostate." 

"What  bitterness,  what  bitterness  in  such  an 
outworn  body!  You  speak  ever  of  humility  and 
love,  Galileans,  but  what  hatred  there  is  in  your 
every  word.  I  have  just  come  forth  from  a  Coun- 
,  cil,  where  the  brethren  were  ready  to  tear  each 
other's  limbs,  like  wild  beasts,  in  the  name  of 
God,  and  here  you  are  also,  with  your  untram- 
meled  speech.  Why  are  you  full  of  such  hatred? 
Am  I  not  your  brother?  If  you  could  know  how 
calm  and  benevolent  is  my  heart,  even  now.  I 
wish  you  all  good,  I  pray  the  Olympians  to  soften 
your  cruel,  dark,  and  suffering  soul,  blind  man! 
Go  in  peace,  and  remember  that  not  Galileans 
alone  can  forgive!" 

"Do  not  believe  him,  brothers!  this  is  the  craft 
of  the  Adversary,  the  Serpent.  Behold,  oh  Lord, 
how  this  Apostate  speaks  evil  of  Thee,  God  of  Is- 
rael, and  keep  not  silent!" 

Then  paying  no  more  attention  to  the  old  man's 
curses,  Julian  went  forth  among  the  people,  in  his 
simple  white  dress,  sun-lit,  peaceful  and  wise,  like 
one  of  the  philosophers  of  old. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
ARSINOE  IN  THE  CLOISTER. 

It  was  a  stormy  night.  At  long  intervals  the 
moonbeams  broke  through  the  rapidly  drifting 
clouds,  and  mingled  strangely  with  the  flashing 
of  the  lightning.  A  warm  wind,  full  of  the  salt 


Arsinoe  in  the  Cloister.  305 

smell  of  rotten  reeds,  swept  the  rain  in  oblique 
lines. 

On  the  banks  of  the  Bosphorus,  a  horseman  was 
approaching  a  lonely  ruin.  In  immemorial  days, 
when  the  warlike  Trojans  lived  here,  this  fortress 
was  a  watch-tower.  Only  wind-worn  stones  were 
now  left  of  it,  and  half-dilapidated  walls.  In  the 
base  of  the  tower  was  a  tiny  chamber,  a  refuge  for 
wandering  shepherds  and  tramps  in  foul  weather. 

Tying  up  his  horse  under  the  shelter  of  a  half- 
fallen  shed,  and  pulling  a  prickly  burdock  aside, 
the  horseman  knocked  at  the  low  door: 

"It  is  I,  Meroe,  open!" 

An  Egyptian  woman  opened  the  door,  and  ad- 
mitted him  to  the  interior  of  the  tower. 

The  horseman  went  close  to  a  dimly  burning 
torch.  The  light  fell  on  his  face.  It  was  the  Em- 
peror Julian. 

They  went  out.  The  old  woman,  who  knew  the 
place  well,  led  him  by  the  hand. 

Pushing  aside  the  stiff  stems  of  a  dead  thistle, 
she  sought  the  low  entrance  into  a  cleft  between 
the  cliffs.  They  descended  a  stairway.  The  sea 
was  near.  The  thunder  of  the  breakers  shook  the 
ground.  But  the  wall  of  rock  sheltered  them  from 
the  wind.  The  Egyptian  struck  a  light. 

"Here,  my  master, — a  torch  and  the  key.  Turn 
it  twice.  The  door  into  the  monastery  is  open. 
If  you  meet  the  door-keeper,  do  not  fear;  I  have 
bribed  him.  Only  be  careful  not  to  make  a  mis- 
take on  the  upper  corridor, — the  thirteenth  cell 
on  the  left." 

Julian  opened  the  door,  and  for  a  long  time 
continued  to  descend  a  steep  broad  stair  of  time- 
worn  stone  slabs.  Soon  the  covered  passage 


30G  Julian  the  Apostate. 

changed  into  a  defile  so  narrow  that  two  men 
meeting  each  other  could  not  pass.  This  secret 
passage  once  connected  the  watch-tower  with  the 
other  side  of  the  Bosphorus, — now  it  connected 
the  deserted  ruin  with  a  new  Christian  monastery. 

Julian  came  out  high  above  the  wave-tossed  sea, 
between  sharp  cliffs,  eaten  away  by  the  breakers, 
and  began  to  ascend  a  narrow  stairway  cut  in  the 
face  of  the  cliff.  Reaching  the  top,  he  saw  a  brick 
wall.  It  was  uneven;  many  bricks  were  missing, 
or  stuck  out.  Eesting  his  foot  in  the  inequalities, 
and  grasping  the  rough  ends  of  the  bricks,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  climbing  over  into  the  tiny  monastery 
garden. 

He  entered  a  neat  courtyard.  Here  all  breathed 
tranquillity.  The  walls  were  covered  with  tea- 
roses.  In  the  warm  stormy  air,  the  scent  of  the 
flowers  was  strong  and  overpowering. 

The  shutters  on  one  of  the  lower  windows  were 
not  fastened  from  within.  Julian  opened  them 
gently,  and  climbed  through  the  window. 

The  close  air  of  the  nunnery  surrounded  him. 
It  smelt  of  damp  and  incense,  mice,  medicinal 
herbs  and  fresh  apples,  which  the  careful  nuns 
kept  in  the  cellars. 

The  Emperor  entered  a  long  corridor.  There 
was  a  row  of  doors  on  either  side. 

He  counted  to  the  thirteenth  door  on  the  left, 
and  softly  opened  it.  The  cell  was  dimly  lighted 
"by  an  alabaster  night-lamp.  There  was  an  atmos- 
phere of  dreamy  warmth.  He  held  his  breath. 

On  a  low  couch,  with  snow-white  coverlet,  lay  a 
girl  in  a  nun's  robe.  She  must  have  gone  to  sleep 
during  the  prayer  time,  without  undressing.  The 
shadow  of  her  eye-lashes  fell  on  her  pale  cheeks. 


Arsinoe  in  the  Cloister.  307 

Her  brows  were  set  sternly  and  majestically,  like 
the  brows  of  the  dead. 

He  recognized  Arsinoe. 

She  was  greatly  changed.  Only  her  hair  re- 
mained the  same:  at  the  roots,  dark  golden,  at  the 
ends,  pale  yellow,  like  honey  in  the  rays  of  the  sun. 

Her  eyelids  trembled.    She  shuddered. 

Before  his  eyes  flashed  the  proud  body  of  the 
Amazon  bathed  in  the  sunlight  and  blinding,  like 
the  gold-tinged  marble  of  the  Parthenon.  And, 
stretching  out  his  hand  to  the  nun,  who  slept, 
under  the  shadow  of  the  black  cross,  Julian  whis- 
pered, in  tones  of  uncontrollable  love: 

"Arsinoe!" 

The  girl  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him  qui- 
etly, without  astonishment  or  fear,  as  if  she  had 
known  that  he  was  coming.  But  coming  to  her- 
self, she  shuddered,  and  raised  her  hand  to  her 
face. 

He  came  closer  to  her: 

"Fear  not.    Say  the  word,  and  I  go." 

"Why  have  you  come?" 

"I  wanted  to  know  whether  it  was  true." 

"Julian,  it  is  all  the  same.  We  shall  not  under- 
stand each  other." 

"Arsinoe,  is  it  true  that  you  believe  in  Him?" 

With  downcast  eyes,  she  made  no  answer. 

"Do  you  remember  that  night  in  Athens,"  con- 
tinued the  Emperor,  "do  you  remember  how  you 
tempted  me,  a  Galilean  monk,  as  I  now  tempt 
you?  The  pride  and  strength  of  old  are  in  your 
face,  Arsinoe,  and  not  the  slavish  humility  of  the 
Galileans!  Why  do  you  lie?  The  heart  cannot 
change.  Tell  me  the  truth!" 

"I  desire  power,"  she  murmured. 


SOS  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"Power?  So  you  remember  our  compact?"  he 
cried  joyously. 

She  shook  her  head,  with  a  mournful  smile: 

"Oh  no!  not  over  people,  it  is  not  worth  while. 
You  know  that,  yourself.  I  desire  power  over  my- 
self!" 

"And  for  it,  you  go  into  the  desert?" 

"Yes,  and  also  for — freedom." 

"Arsinoe,  as  of  old  vou  love  yourself,  and  your- 
self alone." 

"I  would  gladly  love  myself  and  others,  as  He 
commanded.  But  I  cannot.  I  hate  mvself  and 
others." 

"Better  not  live  at  all!"  exclaimed  Julian. 

"I  must  overcome  myself,"  she  said  slowly.  "I 
must  conquer  myself,  and  conquer  in  myself  not 
only  my  detestation  of  death,  but  also  my  detesta- 
tion of  life.  And  this  is  far  harder,  because  such 
a  life  as  mine  is  more  terrible  than  death.  But  if 
you  conquer  yourself  to  the  end,  life  and  death 
will  be  one,  and  then  comes  mighty  freedom!" 

Her  narrow  brows  we*e  drawn  with  the  stub- 
bornness of  an  unbending  will. 

Julian  looked  at  her  in  despair. 

"What  have  they  done  with  you?" he  asked  gent- 
ly, "you  are  all  either  torturers  or  tortured.  Why 
do  you  torment  yourselves?  Do  you  not  see  that 
there  is  nothing  but  hatred  and  despair  in  your 
soul?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  angrily: 

"Why  have  you  come  hither?  I  did  not  invite 
you.  Go!  What  is  it  to  me  what  you  think?  I 
have  enough  of  my  own  thoughts  and  torments. 
Between  us  there  is  a  gulf  fixed,  which  the  living 
may  not  cross  over.  You  say  that  I  do  not  be- 


Arsinoe  in  the  Cloister.  309 

lieve.  But  I  hate  myself  for  it.  I  shall  reach  God 
by  hatred  of  myself.  I  do  not  believe, — but  I  wish 
to  believe,  I  will  and  I  shall!  I  shall  force  myself 
to.  I  shall  subdue  my  flesh;  I  shall  wither  it  with 
hunger  and  thirst.  I  shall  make  it  more  dead  to- 
feeling  than  the  lifeless  stones.  But  most  of  all, — 
the  reason.  I  must  slay  it,  because  it  is  the  Devil. 
It  is  more  alluring  than  all  desires.  I  shall  cut  it 
away.  That  will  be  the  last  victory,  and  the 
mightiest.  Then, — liberty.  ^sThen  we  shall  see 
whether  anything  rebels  within  me,  saying:  *I  do 
not  believe!'" 

She  pressed  the  palms  of  her  hands  together, 
and  raised  them  to  heaven,  in  a  desperate  prayer: 

"Oh  Lord,  have  mercy  upon  me.  Where  art 
Thou,  Lord?  Hear  me,  and  have  mercy  upon 
me!" 

Julian  threw  himself  on  his  knees  before  her,, 
and  clasped  her  round  the  waist;  he  drew  her  to 
his  breast,  and  his  eyes  gleamed  triumphantly: 

"Oh,  Arsinoe!  I  see  now  that  you  could  not  de- 
sert us;  that  you  wanted  to,  and  could  not!  Come 
at  once,  come  away  with  me!  And  to-morrow  you 
will  be  the  wife  of  the  Roman  emperor,  the  queen 
of  the  world.  I  came  hither  like  a  thief, — I  will 
go  like  a  lion — with  my  prey.  What  a  victory 
over  the  Galileans!  Who  will  hinder  us?  We 
shall  dare  all;  we  shall  be  as  gods!" 

Arsinoe's  face  grew  mournful  and  calm.  She 
looked  at  him  compassionately,  not  thrusting  him 
away: 

"Poor  soul!  You  are  to  be  pitied  as  much  as  If 
You  do  not  know  yourself  what  you  seek.  And 
what  do  your  hopes  rest  on?  Your  gods  are  dead. 
From  that  infection,  from  that  terrible  taint  of 


310  Julian  the  Apostate. 

rottenness,  I  am  fleeing  to  the  desert.  Leave  me. 
I  cannot  help  you.  Go." 

His  eyes  flashed  with  anger  and  passion. 

But  she  continued  calmly,  with  still  greater  pity 
in  her  tone,  so  that  his  heart  shuddered  and  grew 
cold  as  from  a  mortal  insult: 

"Why  do  you  deceive  yourself?  Are  you  not  as 
full  of  doubt,  as  much  a  castaway  as  I  am? — as  we 
all  are?  Think  what  your  acts  of  mercy  mean, 
and  your  refuges  fo?  strangers,  your  sermons  to 
the  Hellenic  priests.  All  this  is  an  imitation  of 
the  Galileans,  all  this  is  new, — unknown  to  the 
great  men  of  old,  the  heroes  of  Hellas.  Julian, 
Julian,  are  your  gods  the  Olympians  of  old, 
— radiant  and  pitiless,  terrible  children  of  the 
azure,  delighting  in  the  blood  of  victims  and  the 
sufferings  of  mortals?  Blood  and  the  sorrows  of 
men  are  the  nectar  and  ambrosia  of  the  ancient 
gods!  And  yours, — ensnared  by  the  faith  of  the 
fishermen  of  Capernaum, — are  weak,  sickly,  dying 
for  love  of  men.  Because  pity  for  men  is  death 
for  the  gods!" 

The  storm  was  sinking  into  silence.  Through 
the  window,  between  the  riven  clouds,  the  bottom- 
less abyss  of  the  sky  shone  in  a  green,  sad  dawn, 
in  which  the  star  of  Aphrodite  was  dying.  The 
emperor  felt  weary  and  worn.  His  face  was  cov- 
ered with  mortal  paleness.  He  made  fearful  efforts 
to  appear  calm,  but  every  word  Arsinoe  spoke 
penetrated  into  the  depths  of  his  heart  and  "hurt 
him. 

"Yes,"  she  continued  inexorably,  "you  are 
sickly;  you  are  too  weak  for  your  wisdom.  That 
is  your  condemnation,  belated  Hellenes!  You 
have  strength  neither  for  good  nor  for  evil!  You 


The  Gods  Are  Not.  311 

are  neither  day  nor  night,  neither  life  nor  death. 
Your  heart  is  here,  and  also  there.  You  have  set 
forth  from  one  bank,  but  have  not  reached  the 
other.  You  believe,  and  yet  believe  not,  ever  chang- 
ing, ever  hesitating,  you  will,  and  you  cannot,  be- 
cause you  know  not  how  to  will.  They  only  are 
strong  who,  seeing  one  truth,  are  blind  to  the 
other.  They  will  conquer  you,  who  are  double- 
minded,  wise  and  weak!" 

Julian  raised  his  head  with  an  effort,  as  if  driv- 
ing away  an  evil  dream,  and  spoke: 

"You  are  mistaken,  Arsinoe!  My  soul  knows 
no  fear,  my  will  is  undaunted.  The  powers  of 
Fate  lead  me.  If  I  am  destined  to  die  before  my 
time,  I  know  that  my  death  will  be  glorious  in  the 
eyes  of  the  gods!  Farewell.  You  see  that  I  de- 
part without  anger,  mournful  and  calm,  because 
you  are  now  for  me  as  one  dead." 


CHAPTER  IX. 
THE  GODS  ARE  NOT. 

Above  the  gates  of  the  chief  building  of  the 
hospital  of  the  Far-darting  Apollo,  for  beggars, 
wanderers  and  waifs,  a  verse  of  Homer  was  in- 
scribed in  Greek  letters  on  the  marble  pediment: 

"  Zeus  is  our  father, 
"  We  are  all  wanderers.  Little  I  give,  but  with  love  it  is  given.'* 

The  Emperor  entered  the  inner  portico.  A 
graceful  Ionic  colonnade  surrounded  the  court. 
The  hospital  had  once  been  a  palaestra. 


312  Julian  the  Apostate. 

The  evening  came  on,  still  and  full  of  quiet  joy. 
The  sun  was  not  yet  set. 

But  from  the  portico  of  the  hospital  and  from 
the  inner  chamber  came  a  heavy  and  oppressive 
odor. 

Here,  in  a  single  heap,  lay  children  and  old  men, 
Christians  and  heathens,  sick  and  healthy  cripples, 
the  maimed,  the  halt,  the  weak,  covered  with  sores, 
swollen  with  dropsy,  wasted  by  decline,  with  the 
stamp  of  all  sins  and  all  sorrows  on  their  faces. 

A  half-naked  old  woman,  with  leather-colored 
skin,  like  the  color  of  withered  leaves,  was  scratch- 
ing her  back,  covered  with  wounds,  against  the 
delicate  marble  of  an  Ionic  pillar. 

In  the  midst  of  a  court  rose  a  statue  of  the 
Pythian  Apollo,  with  a  bow  in  his  hands,  and  a 
quiver  on  his  back. 

At  the  foot  of  the  image  sat  a  wrinkled  mon- 
ster, a  mixture  of  childhood  and  old  age.  Clasp- 
ing his  hands  round  his  knees,  and  resting  his  chin 
on  them,  he  swayed  slowly  from  side  to  side,  and 
chanted  an  endless  melancholy  dirge  with  an  ex- 
pression of  dull  listlessness: 

"Jesus  Christ,  Son  of  God,  have  mercy  upon  us 
accursed!" 

Finally  the  chief  overseer,  Marcus  Ausonius,  ap- 
peared, pale  and  trembling. 

"Most  wise  and  gracious  Caesar,  will  you  not  be 
pleased  to  enter  my  house?  The  air  here  is  bad. 
And  moreover,  there  are  dangerous  illnesses.  The 
division  of  the  lepers  is  not  far  off." 

"Never  mind,  I  am  not  afraid.  Are  you  the 
chief  overseer?" 

Ausonius  bowed  low,  trying  not  to  breathe,  for 
fear  of  contagion. 


The  Gods  Are  ISTot.  313 

"Are  bread  and  wine  distributed  daily?" 

"Everything  that  the  gracious  Augustus  com- 
manded." 

"What  filth!" 

"The  Galileans  are  the  cause  of  it.  They  count 
it  a  sin  to  wash.  You  cannot  get  them  into  a  bath 
even  by  force." 

"Order  the  account-books  to  be  brought,"  inter- 
rupted Julian. 

The  overseer  fell  on  his  knees,  and  for  a  long 
time  could  not  utter  a  word;  finally,  gulping  and 
stammering,  he  said: 

"Master,  everything  is  as  it  should  be;  but  we 
had  an  accident — the  books  were  burned." 

The  Emperor  frowned. 

At  that  moment,  cries  arose  among  the  crowd  of 
sick  folk: 

"A  miracle!  A  miracle  is  accomplished!  Look, 
a  man  smitten  with  the  palsy  is  standing  up!" 

Julian  turned,  and  saw  how  a  man  of  great  stat- 
ure, his  face  demented  with  joy,  and  his  hands 
stretched  out  towards  him,  was  rising  from  his 
straw  pallet  with  a  light  of  childish  faith  in  his 
eyes. 

"I  believe!  I  believe!"  cried  the  paralytic,  "that 
you  are  not  a  man  but  a  god,  descended  upon  the 
earth!  Your  face  is  like  the  face  of  a  god!  Ap- 
proach me  and  heal  me,  Caesar!" 

"A  miracle,  a  mighty  miracle!"  cried  the  sick 
in  triumph.  "Glory  to  the  Emperor,  glory  to 
Apollo  the  Healer!" 

"Come  to  me!  Come  to  me!"  cried  others,  "say 
only  a  word!  And  I  shall  be  healed." 

The  setting  sun  flashed  through  the  open  door- 
way, and  lit  up  the  face  of  the  Far-darting  Apollo 


314  Julian  the  Apostate. 

with  a  soft  radiance.  Julian  looked  up  at  the  god, 
and,  for  the  first  time,  everything  in  the  hospital 
seemed  a  sacrilege  to  him.  The  eyes  of  the  bright 
Olympian  ought  not  to  look  on  such  ugliness.  Ju- 
lian wished  to  cleanse  the  ancient  palaestra  where 
mighty  athletes  had  once  exercised,  of  all  this 
Galilean  and  heathen  rabble,  all  this  foul-smelling 
human  ordure.  Oh,  if  the  antique  god  were  to 
awaken,  how  his  eyes  would  glitter,  how  his  arrows 
would  twang,  driving  away  the  halt  and  maimed, 
and  clearing  the  air  that  they  had  polluted. 

Julian  hurriedly  and  silently  left  the  hospital 
of  Apollo,  forgetting  Ausonius  and  his  account- 
books.  The  Emperor  saw  that  the  information  he 
had  received  was  true;  that  the  chief  overseer  was 
a  pilferer,  but  such  weariness  and  disgust  filled  his 
heart  that  he  had  not  the  courage  to  look  deeper 
into  this  knavery  and  verify  it. 

When  he  returned  to  the  palace,  it  was  late.  He 
ordered  no  one  to  be  admitted,  and  went  to  the 
terrace  that  looked  over  the  Bosphorus.  He  had 
passed  the  whole  day  in  wearisome  petty  affairs, 
in  official  details,  in  the  verification  of  accounts. 
Many  robberies  had  been  discovered.  The  emperor 
saw  that  his  best  friends  deceived  him.  All  these 
philosophers,  rhetoricians,  poets  and  panegyrists, 
to  whom  he  had  entrusted  the  government  of  the 
world,  cheated  the  treasury  not  less  than  the 
Christian  eunuchs  and  bishops  of  Constant! us' 
time.  The  houses  of  refuge,  the  retreats  for  phil- 
osophers modeled  on  the  monasteries,  the  hospitals 
of  Apollo  and  Aphrodite,  were  the  excuse  for 
clever  pilfering,  the  more  so  that  both  Galileans 
and  heathens  thought  them  a  ridiculous  and  sac- 
rilegious caprice. 


The  Gods  Are  Not.  315 

Julian  felt  that  his  body  was  being  consumed 
by  a  great  and  fruitless  fatigue.  Extinguishing 
his  lamp,  he  retired  to  his  sleeping  chamber. 

"Let  me  think  it  over  in  silence  and  quiet,"  he 
said  to  himself,  looking  out  at  the  evening  sky. 

But  he  did  not  feel  inclined  to  think. 

A  bright  star  was  shining  in  the  darkening 
abyss  of  blue  ether.  Julian  closed  his  eyelids,  and 
a  starbeam  shone  through  them,  penetrating  to 
his  heart  like  a  cold  caress. 

He  started  up  and  shuddered,  feeling  that  some 
one  had  entered  the  room.  The  moonlight  fell 
between  the  columns.  A  tall  old  man,  with  hair 
as  white  as  the  moonlight,  with  deep,  dark  wrinkles, 
in  which  not  suffering  was  expressed,  but  the  pres- 
sure of  unbending  will  and  thought,  stood  at  his 
couch.  Julian  rose,  and  whispered: 

"Teacher,— is  it  you?" 

"Yes,  Julian;  I  have  come  to  talk  to  you  in  pri- 
vate." 

"I  listen." 

"My  child,  you  will  perish,  because  you  are  not 
true  to  yourself." 

"Are  you  also  against  me,  Maximus?" 

"Remember,  Julian,  the  golden  apples  of  the 
Hesperides,  eternally  young.  Mercy  is  the  soft- 
ness and  sweetness  of  overripe,  rotting  fruit!  You 
fast,  you  seek  perfection,  you  are  full  of  gloom, 
you  are  compassionate,  you  call  yourself  the 
enemy  of  the  Galileans,  but  you  yourself  are  a  Gal- 
ilean! Tell  me,  with  what  weapons  do  you  hope 
to  conquer  the  Crucified?" 

"The  beauty  and  gladness  of  the  gods,"  an- 
swered Julian. 

"Have  you  strength?" 


316  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"I  have." 

"To  bear  the  whole  truth?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  know  that  they  are  not!" 

Julian  looked  in  terror  at  the  teacher's  calm, 
wise  eyes. 

"Of  whom  do  you  say  that  they  are  not?"  he 
asked,  trembling. 

"I  say  that  the  Olympians  are  not.  You  are 
alone." 

The  Emperor  made  no  answer.  His  head  fell 
helplessly  on  his  breast. 

Then  a  great  tenderness  glowed  in  Maxim  us' 
eyes.  He  placed  his  hand  on  Julian's  shoulder: 

"Be  comforted.  Or  have  you  not  understood? 
I  wished  to  try  you.  The  gods  are.  See  how  weak 
you  are.  You  cannot  be  alone.  The  gods  are, 
and  they  love  you.  Only  remember,  you  cannot 
unite  the  truth  of  the  Titan  with  the  truth  of  the 
Galilean,  the  Crucified.  If  you  wish,  I  shall  de- 
clare to  you  what  He  will  be  like,  who  is  to  come, 
the  Unknown,  the  Reconciler  of  the  two  worlds?" 

Julian  was  silent,  still  terror-struck  and  pale. 

"He  shall  appear,"  continued  Maximus,  "like 
lightning  from  the  clouds,  bringing  death  and 
lighting  all  things.  He  shall  be  terrible,  and  yet 
without  terror,  higher  than  duty  and  law,  higher 
than  good  and  evil.  In  Him  shall  blend  good  and 
evil,  humility  and  pride,  as  light  and  darkness  are 
mingled  in  the  morning  twilight.  And  men  shall 
bless  Him,  not  only  for  His  mercy,  but  also  for  His 
sternness.  In  it  will  dwell  a  superhuman  strength 
and  beauty!" 

"Teacher!"  exclaimed  the  Emperor,  "I  see  it  all 


The  Gods  Are  Not.    '  31T 

in  your  eyes.  Tell  me  that  you  are  the  Unknown, 
and  I  will  fall  at  your  feet,  and  bless  you." 

''No,  my  son,  it  is  not  I.  I  am  light  of  His  light, 
spirit  of  His  spirit.  But  I  am  not  yet  He.  I  am 
hope;  I  am  the  foreteller." 

"Maximus,  why  do  you  hide  yourself  from  the 
people?  Appear  to  them,  so  that  they  may  know 
you,  as  I  do." 

''My  time  has  not  yet  come,"  answered  the  hier- 
ophant.  "Many  times  have  I  appeared  to  the 
.world,  and  shall  appear  yet  many  times.  Men  fear 
me,  and  call  me  now  a  great  sage,  now  a  deluder, 
now  a  wizard:  Orpheus,  Pythagoras,  Maximus  of 
Ephesus.  But  I  am  nameless.  I  pass  through  the 
crowd  with  sealed  lips,  and  covered  face.  For  what 
can  I  say  to  the  crowd  ?  They  will  not  understand 
my  first  word.  The  secrets  of  my  wisdom  are  more 
terrible  for  them  than  death.  They  are  so  far  from 
me  that  they  crucify  me  not,  nor  stone  me,  as 
they  stone  their  phophets,  they  see  me  not.  I  live 
in  caverns  of  the  earth  and  talk  with  the  dead,  I 
go  forth  to  the  deserted  mountain-peaks  and  talk 
with  the  stars,  I  listen  to  the  growing  of  the 
grass,  the  moaning  of  the  waves  of  the  sea,  the 
beating  of  the  heart  of  the  earth,  to  see  whether 
my  time  be  yet  come.  But  my  time  is  not  yet, 
and  again  I  depart  like  a  shadow,  with  sealed  lips 
and  covered  face." 

"Do  not  depart,  Teacher!  do  not  leave  me!" 

"Fear  not,  Julian:  my  spirit  will  not  leave  you 
till  the  end.  I  love  you,  because  you  must  perish 
for  me,  my  beloved  son,  and  there  is  no  salvation 
for  you!  And  before  I  enter  the  world,  and  re- 
veal myself  to  the  people,  many  mighty  ones  will 
perish,  rejected,  revolting  against  God,  their  great 


318  .    Julian  the  Apostate. 

hearts  rent  in  twain,  allured  by  my  wisdom,  apos- 
tates like  you.  Men  shall  curse  you,  but  they  will 
never  forget  you,  because  my  seal  is  upon  you,  and 
you  are  mine,  the  child  of  my  wisdom!  Men  of 
coming  ages  will  recognize  me  in  you,  and  my 
hope  in  your  destruction,  my  might  through  your 
life,  like  the  sun  through  a  cloud!" 

"If  you  delude  me,  Teacher,  if  your  words  are 
false,  let  me  die  even  for  that  falsehood;  for  it  is 
more  beautiful  than  truth." 

"Once  I  blessed  you,  for  life  and  rule,  Emperor 
Julian;  now  I  bless  you  for  death  and  immortality. 
Go,  perish  for  the  Unknown,  for  Him  that  is  to 
come,  for  the  Eeconciler  of  the  two  truths!" 

The  old  man  laid  his  hands  on  the  head  of  the 
Rejected,  with  a  majestic  smile,  like  a  patriarch  of 
old,  like  a  father  blessing  his  child,  he  kissed  his 
brow  and  said: 

"Once  more  I  disappear  in  the  caverns  of  the 
earth,  and  none  shall  know  me.  Let  my  spirit  be 
upon  thee!" 


CHAPTER  X. 
IN  THE  BATHS. 

In  Antioch  the  Great,  the  capital  of  Syria,  in  a 
side  way  not  far  from  the  main  street  of  Singon, 
were  the  Therma3,  the  magnificent  warm  baths. 

The  baths  were  fashionable  and  dear,  and  many 
came  thither  to  hear  the  latest  news  of  the  city. 

Between  the  disrobing  room  and  the  cold  room 
was  a  luxurious  hall,  paved  with  many-colored 
marbles  and  mosaics,  called  the  sweating-chamber. 


In  the  Baths.  310 

From  the  neighboring  halls  was  heard  the  inces- 
sant falling  of  water  into  the  echoing  baths  and 
huge  basins,  and  the  splashing  and  laughter  of  the 
bathers.  Dusky  slaves,  naked  bathing-men,  ran 
hither  and  thither,  bustling  about  and  opening 
jars  of  perfumes.  In  Antioch  people  looked  on 
the  baths  not  as  an  amusement  or  a  necessity,  but 
as  the  chief  pleasure  of  life,  as  a  great  and  compli- 
cated art.  It  was  not  for  nothing  that  the  capital 
of  Syria  was  famed  throughout  all  the  empire  for 
the  abundance  and  purity  of  its  water.  A  bath  or 
a  pail  full  of  it  seemed  empty,  so  transparent  was 
the  water  of  the  Antiochian  aqueduct. 

Through  a  hot  milk-white  cloud  of  steam  which 
rose  from  the  spiracles  in  the  sweating-chamber, 
were  seen  the  red  naked  bodies  of  the  chief  citizens 
of  Antioch.  Some  were  reclining,  others  were  sit- 
ting, and  others  were  being  rubbed  with  oil  by  the 
bath-attendants;  they  all  talked  with  an  air  of 
great  dignity,  and  sweated,  giving  themselves  up 
with  high  seriousness  to  this  fashionable  and  sci- 
entific art.  The  beauty  of  the  ancient  statues,  the 
Antinoes  and  Adonises  set  in  niches,  accentuated 
only  the  more  the  ugliness  of  the  living  bodies. 

A  fat  old  man,  of  haughty  and  fantastic  exterior 
came  out  of  the  hot  bath.  He  was  the  merchant 
Busiriswho  held  the  trade  of  the  Antiochian  grain- 
market  in  his  hands.  A  well-built  young  man 
politely  supported  him  by  the  arm.  Although  both 
were  naked,  it  was  easy  to  see  at  a  glance  which 
was  the  master,  and  which  the  client. 

"Turn  on  the  heat!"  said  Busiris,  in  a  hoarse 
voice  of  command.  By  the  roughness  of  his  tone 
alone  it  was  easy  to  guess  that  the  corn-merchant 
was  a  master  of  millions. 


320  Julian  the  Apostate. 

Two  bronze  taps  were  opened.  The  hot  steam 
hissed  out  of  the  spiracle,  and  surrounded  the  old 
man  with  a  thick  cloud.  Like  a  monstrous  god  in 
his  apotheosis,  he  stood  in  a  damp  white  cloud, 
snorting  and  grunting  with  satisfaction,  and  clap- 
ping his  fat  palms  on  his  red,  fleshy  paunch,  that 
resounded  like  a  drum. 

Close  to  him  Marcus  Ausonius  the  questorian 
official,  and  former  overseer  of  the  houses  of  ref- 
uge and  hospitals  of  Apollo,  was  sitting  on  his 
haunches.  Diminutive  and  lean,  he  looked  like  a 
pinched  and  frost-bitten  chicken  beside  the  fat 
mountainous  merchant. 

The  sarcastic  Junius  Mauricus  could  not  get  the 
sweat  to  break  out  on  his  sinewy  body,  do  what  he 
could.  He  was  as  dry  as  a  stick,  bony,  and  bilious. 

Gargilianus  was  lying,  stretched  out  on  the  mar- 
ble floor,  fat,  sinewless,  soft  as  jelly,  and  huge  as  a 
boar's  carcass.  A  Paphlagonian  slave,  panting 
from  his  exertions,  was  rubbing  his  puffy  back 
with  a  wet  cloth. 

The  poet  Publius  Porphyrius  Optatianus,  who 
had  recently  grown  rich,  looked  sadly  at  his  feet, 
deformed  by  gout. 

"Do  you  know,  my  friends,"  asked  the  poet,  "do 
you  know  the  message  of  the  white  oxen  to  the 
.Roman  emperor?" 

"No;  tell  it  to  us!" 

"There  is  only  one  line:  'If  you  conquer  the  Per- 
sians, we  are  lost/  " 

"What?  is  that  all?" 

"What  more  do  you  want?" 

The  white  carcass  of  Gargilianus  quivered  with 
laughter: 

"I  swear  by  Pallas,  it  is  short  but  true!    If  the 


In  the  Baths.  321 

Emperor  returns  victorious  from  Persia,  he  will 
offer  such  a  multitude  of  white  oxen  to  the  Olym- 
pian gods  that  those  animals  will  become  a  greater 
rarity  than  the  Egyptian  Apis.  Slave,  my  loins, 
my  loins.  Hub  harder !" 

And  the  carcass,  turning  slowly  over,  rolled  to 
its  other  side  with  the  sound  of  a  heap  of  wet  linen 
falling  on  the  marble  floor. 

"Ha-ha-haP  laughed  Junius,  with  his  thin, 
crackling,  and  bilious  laugh.  "They  say  that  from 
India  and  from  the  island  of  Taprobane  an  innu- 
merable quantity  of  rare  white  birds  are  being 
brought.  And  from  somewhere  in  frozen  Scythia 
are  coming  huge  wild  swans.  And  all  for  the 
gods.  The  Koman  emperor  is  feeding  up  the 
Olympians.  What  can  we  do?  The  poor  things 
have  had  time  to  get  hungry  since  Constantine's 
time!" 

"The  gods  are  over-eating  themselves,"  cried 
Gargilianus,  "while  we  starve.  For  three  whole 
days  there  has  not  been  one  Colchidian  pheasant 
in  the  market,  nor  a  single  decent  fish." 

"The  3roung  puppy!"  remarked  the  corn-mer- 
chant, abruptly. 

Every  one  turned  and  became  politely  silent. 

"The  young  puppy!"  repeated  Busiris,  yet  more 
majestically  and  insistently.  "I  say  that  if  some- 
body squeezed  your  Roman  emperor's  lips  or  nose, 
the  milk  would  flow  out  of  it,  as  it  does  from  the 
lips  of  a  calf  a  fortnight  old.  He  wanted  to  lower 
the  price  of  corn,  and  forbade  it  to  be  sold  at  the 
price  they  settled  themselves.  He  sent  for  400,000 
measures  of  Egyptian  corn." 

"Well?  did  he  lower  it?" 

"Wait  a  moment,  and  you  will  hear.    I  spoke  to 


322  Julian  the  Apostate. 

the  merchants.  They  shut  up  the  granaries.  We 
thought  it  would  be  better  to  let  the  wheat  rot, 
rather  than  give  in.  They  ate  up  the  Egyptian 
corn.  We  won't  sell  ours.  He  cooked  the  broth 
himself;  let  him  eat  it!" 

Busiris  slapped  his  belly  majestically. 

"That's  enough  steam — pour!"  and  a  handsome 
young  slave  with  long  curls,  who  looked  like  An- 
tinous,  opened  a  fine  vase  of  Arabian  perfumes, 
and  poured  it  over  him.  The  cassia  flowed  in 
thick  streams  over  his  hot,  red  body,  and  Busiris 
wiped  the  big  drops  off  with  much  satisfaction. 
Then  he  wiped  his  fat  fingers  on  the  slave's  golden 
curls,  as  the  latter  bent  down  before  him. 

"Your  grace,"  began  his  complaisant  parasite 
and  client,  "your  grace  was  good  enough  to  remark 
that  the  Emperor  Julian  was  nothing  but  a  young 
calf.  Not  long  ago,  he  published  a  pasquinade  on 
the  citizens  of  Antioch,  with  the  title:  'The  Beard- 
hater,'  (Misopogon),  in  which  he  answers  the 
abuse  of  the  rabble  even  more  abusively,  declaring 
openly  that:  'you  laugh  at  my  rudeness,  at  my 
beard, — laugh,  as  much  as  you  please.  I  also  will 
laugh  at  myself.  I  have  no  need  of  judges,  spies, 
prisons,  or  executioners/  Well,  I  ask  you,  is  that 
worthy  of  the  Roman  Emperor?" 

"Caesar  Constantius  of  blessed  memory,"  re- 
marked Busiris  in  a  tone  of  authority,  "was  not 
like  Julian.  You  could  see  that  he  was  an  empe- 
ror by  his  dress,  by  his  carriage.  But  this  fellow, 
God  forgive  me,  is  a  god-forsaken,  short-legged 
ape,  a  bow-legged  bear  who  wanders  about  the 
streets,  unshaven,  unbrushed,  unwashed,  with 
black  marks  on  his  fingers.  Books,  learning,  phil- 
osophy,— wait  a  little,  and  we  will  settle  with  you 


Iii  the  Baths.  323 

for  all  this  freethinking.  You  cannot  jest  like 
that.  The  people  must  be  held  in;  that  is  how  it 
is!  Once  you  let  them  go,  you  cannot  get  hold  of 
them  again." 

Then  Marcus  Ausonius,  who  up  to  that  time  had 
kept  silent,  thoughtfully  remarked: 

"We  could  forgive  him  everything,  but  why  does 
he  take  away  the  last  pleasures  that  are  left  to  us? 
— the  circus  and  the  gladiatorial  shows?  My 
friends,  the  sight  of  blood  affords  people  the  high- 
est enjoyment,  and  always  will.  It  is  a  sacred  and 
mystic  delight.  Without  blood  there  is  no  pleas- 
ure and  no  greatness  upon  earth;  the  smell  of 
blood  is  the  smell  of  Kome!" 

The  face  of  the  last  descendant  of  the  Ausonii 
expressed  a  strange  feeling  of  weakness.  He  looked 
at  his  auditors  inquiringly,  with  naive,  half  child- 
ish, half  senile  eyes. 

The  overfed  carcass  of  Gargilianus  quivered  on 
the  floor;  raising  his  head,  he  gazed  at  Ausonius. 

"That  was  very  well  said:  'the  smell  of  blood  is 
.the  smell  of  Rome!'  Go  on,  go  on,  Marcus,  you 
are  in  vein  to-day." 

"I  say  what  I  feel,  friends.  Blood  is  so  sweet  to 
mankind  that  even  the  Christians  could  not  do 
without  it.  They  want  to  cleanse  the  world  with 
blood.  Julian  is  making  a  mistake.  In  taking 
away  the  circus  from  the  people,  he  takes  away  the 
pleasure  of  blood.  The  rabble  would  forgive  every- 
thing, but  it  will  not  forgive  that!" 

Marcus  pronounced  these  last  words  in  a  ma- 
jestic voice.  Suddenly  he  passed  his  hand  over  his 
body,  and  his  face  beamed. 

"You  are  sweating?"  asked  Gargilianus  sympa- 
theticallv. 


324  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"Yes/'  answered  Ausonius,  with  a  soft  smile  of 
ecstasy. — "Hub,  rub,  quick,  rub  my  back,  before 
it  gets  cold." 

He  lay  down.  The  bath  attendant  began  to  rub 
his  poor  bloodless  limbs,  suffused  with  a  bluish 
pallor,  like  a  corpse. 

From  their  niches  of  porphyry,  the  proud  Helle- 
nic sculptures  of  olden  days  looked  contemptu- 
ously through  the  clouds  of  steam  at  all  these 
shapeless  bodies. 

Meanwhile  a  crowd  was  collecting  in  the  side- 
street,  at  the  entrance  of  the  Therma.  By  night 
Antioch  was  brilliant  with  fires,  especially  the 
main  street  of  Singon,  which  cut  straight  through 
the  city,  for  thirty-six  stadia,  with  porticos,  dou- 
ble colonnades  and  luxurious  shops  throughout  its 
whole  length. 

In  front  of  the  bath  staircase,  illuminating  the 
motley  crowd,  the  street  lamps  flared,  blown  about 
by  the  wind.  The  pitchy  smoke  rolled  in  clouds 
from  the  iron  lamp-holders. 

Jests  at  the  emperor  were  heard  all  through  the 
crowd.  Small  boys  dived  hither  and  thither,  shout- 
ing satirical  anapa3sts.  An  old  charwoman  caught 
one  of  the  young  satirists  and  pulling  his  shirt 
over  his  head,  spanked  his  bare  pink  body  with 
the  sole  of  her  sandal,  exclaiming: 

"Take  that!  take  that!  You  will  sing  low  songs, 
you  little  devil!" 

The  dusky-faced  boy  set  up  a  piercing  shriek. 

Another,  climbing  on  a  companion's  back,  drew 
a  caricature  on  the  white  wall  with  a  piece  of  char- 
coal,— a  long-bearded  goat,  in  an  imperial  diadem. 
An  older  boy,  probably  a  scholar,  with  a  pretty, 
mischievous  'and  knavish  face,  added  an  inscrip- 


In  the  Baths.  325 

tion  in  large  letters  under  the  drawing:  "This  is 
the  godless  Julian." 

Trying  to  make  his  voice  loud  and  frightful, 
and  hopping  from  one  foot  to  the  other  like  a  hear, 
he  half  sang,  half  shouted: 

The  butcher  comes, 
The  butcher  comes, 
With  a  big  sharp  knife, 
And  his  beard  hangs  down, 
With  its  black,  black  wool, 
With  its  long,  long  wool, 
Like  a  he-goat's  beard — 

An  old  man,  in  black  clothes,  probably  a 
monk,  stopped  to  listen  to  the  boy.  He  shook  his 
head,  raising  his  eyes  to  heaven,  and  turned  to  a 
slave  porter: 

"It  is  said  that  out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  comes 
the  truth.  Was  it  not  better  for  us  all  under  0 
and  Ch?" 

"What  do  you  mean  by  C  and  Ch?" 

"Do  you  not  understand  ?  C  is  the  first  letter  of 
Constantius,  and  Ch  is  the  beginning  of  Christ.  I 
mean  that  Constantius  and  Christ  did  the  people 
of  Antioch  no  harm,  not  like  certain  wandering 
philosophers." 

"That's  true,  that's  true.  We  got  on  better 
with  C  and  Ch." 

A  drunken  beggar  had  overheard  the  witticism, 
and  started  to  spread  it  through  the  streets,  with  a 
look  of  pride. 

"We  got  on  well,  under  C  and  Ch!"  he  cried, 
"long  live  C  and  Ch." 

That  jest  was  destined  to  spread  through  all  An- 
tioch, and  to  delight  the  rabble  with  its  senseless 
jingle. 


326  Julian  the  Apostate. 

Even  greater  gayety  reigned  in  the  taverns  op- 
posite the  baths,  which  belonged  to  the  Cappado- 
cian  Armenian,  Syrophenix.  He  had  long  ago 
transferred  his  trade  from  the  neighborhood  of 
Cassarea,  near  Macellum,  to  Antioch. 

Wine  was  being  carefully  decanted  from  goat- 
skins and  clay  amphoras  into  pewter  goblets.  Here 
as  everywhere  else,  people  were  talking  about  the 
emperor.  A  little  Syrian  soldier  was  especially 
eloquent.  It  was  Strombicus,  the  same  who  had 
taken  part  in  Julian's  expedition  against  the 
northern  barbarians  of  Gaul.  Beside  him  was  his 
faithful  friend  and  companion,  the  gigantic  Sar- 
matian  Aragarius. 

Strombicus  felt  like  a  fish  in  the  water.  He 
loved  revolts  and  disturbances  better  than  any- 
thing else  in  the  world. 

He  was  preparing  to  pronounce  a  speech. 
An   old   woman,   by   profession   a   rag-picker, 
brought  a  piece  of  news: 

"We  are  ruined,  we  are  ruined  to  the  last  one. 
God  has  deserted  us!    Yesterday  a  neighbor  told 
me  something  that  I  could  not  believe  at  first!" 
"What  was  it,  old  woman?  tell  us." 
"It  was  in  Gaza,  dears,  it  happened  in  the  city 
of  Gaza.    The  heathens  attacked  a  nunnery.  They 
dragged  the  nuns  out,  stripped  them,  fastened 
them  to  pillars  in  the  market-place,   cut  their 
bodies  up,  sprinkled  them  with  barley,  and  threw 
the  pieces  to  the  pigs." 

"I  saw,"  said  a  young  spinner  with  a  pale  obsti- 
nate face;  "I  saw  myself  how  a  heathen  ate  the 
raw  liver  of  a  murdered  deacon,  in  Heliopolis  of 
Lebanon." 


In  the  Baths.  327 

"What  an  abomination!"  cried  a  coppersmith, 
frowning. 

Many  of  them  crossed  themselves. 

With  Aragarius'  help,  Strombicus  climbed  upon 
the  dirty,  sticky  table,  with  pools  of  wine  on  it, 
and  striking  a  fine  oratorical  attitude,  turned  to 
the  crowd.  Aragarius  nodding  his  head  approv- 
ingly, pointed  at  him  with  pride. 

"Citizens!"  began  Strombicus,  "how  long  shall 
we  delay?  let  us  rise  in  revolt!  Do  you  know  that 
Julian  has  sworn  that  when  he  returns  victorious 
from  Persia,  he  will  gather  all  the  holy  men  to- 
gether and  throw  them  to  the  wild  beasts  in  the 
arena?  He  will  turn  the  basilicas  into  granaries, 
and  the  churches  into  stables!" 

At  that  moment,  a  hunchbacked  old  man  stag- 
gered into  the  tavern,  pale  with  fear.  He  was  a 
glass-maker,  and  the  husband  of  the  rag-picker. 
Stopping  in  despair  he  struck  himself  on  the 
thighs  with  both  hands,  attracting  the  eyes  of  all, 
and  stammered: 

"Have  you  heard?  Listen  to  what  has  hap- 
pened! Two  hundred  dead  bodies  in  the  wells  and 
aqueducts!" 

"When?    Where?  what  dead  bodies?" 

"Hush,  hush,"  whispered  the  glass-blower  mys- 
teriously: "they  say  that  the  Apostate  has  been 
casting  omens  from  the  entrails  of  living  men, — 
all  about  the  war  with  the  Persians  and  his  victory 
over  the  Christians!" 

And  suffocating  with  satisfaction,  he  went  on: 

"They  found  boxes  of  bones  in  the  vaults  under 
the  palace  in  Antioch.  Human  bones!  And  in 
the  city  of  Carpol,  not  far  from  Edessa,  the  Chris- 
tians found  the  body  of  a  pregnant  woman,  in  an 


328  Julian  the  Apostate. 

underground  temple.  Julian  had  cut  her  open, 
to  cast  omens,  all  about  the  accursed  war  with  the 
Persians." 

"Ho,  Gluturinus!  is  it  true  that  they  found 
human  bones  in  the  cloacae?  You  ought  to  know/' 
said  a  shoemaker,  a  great  sceptic. 

Gluturinus,  a  cleaner  of  sewers,  was  standing  in 
the  doorway,  not  daring  to  enter,  because  of  his 
unsavory  odor.  When  he  was  questioned,  he  began 
to  smile  timidly,  and  to  blink  his  swollen  lids: 

"No,  worthy  sir!"  he  answered  modestly,  "they 
found  a  few  babies.  And  they  also  found  the 
skeletons  of  asses  and  camels.  But  I  don't  think 
they  found  any  human  bones." 

When  Strombicus  began  to  speak  again,  the 
sewer-cleaner  watched  the  orator  with  awe,  and 
scratching  his  bare  foot  against  the  door-post,  lis- 
tened with  inexpressible  delight. 

"Men  and  brothers!"  exclaimed  the  orator  with 
unwonted  heat,  "let  us  die  like  ancient  Romans!" 

"What  are  you  bursting  your  throat  about?"  in- 
terrupted the  shoemaker  angrily,  "when  it  comes 
to  action,  you  will  be  the  firct  to  run  and  leave  the 
rest  of  us  to  die." 

"Cowards,  you  are  cowards!"  a  rouged  and  pow- 
dered woman  broke  into  the  dispute;  she  wore  a 
many-colored  but  poor  garment,  and  was  a  woman 
of  the  streets  whom  her  admirers  simply  called  the 
Witch. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  continued  angrily,  "what 
the  holy  martyrs,  Theodulus,  Tatianus  and  Mace- 
donius  said  to  the  executioners?" 

"We  don't  know.    Tell  us,  Witch!" 

"I  heard  them  myself.  In  Phrygian  Myrrha, 
three  youths,  Macedonius,  Theodulus  and  Tatia- 


In  the  Baths.  329 

rms,  went  to  a  heathen  temple  at  night  and  de- 
sfroyed  the  idol,  for  the  glory  of  God.  The  pro- 
Sohsul  Amachius  seized  the  holy  men,  and  putting 
them  on  an  iron  frying  pan,  ordered  a  fire  to  be 
lit.  And  they  said  themselves:  Amachius,  if  you 
wish  to  taste  well-roasted  flesh,  turn  us  over  on  the 
other  side,  so  that  we  may  not  be  underdone!  And 
all  three  of  them  laughed  and  spat  in  the  procon- 
1  sul's  face.  And  many  saw  how  an  angel  flew  down 
from  heaven  with  three  crowns.  I  do  not  think 
you  would  answer  so!  You  can  only  tremble  for 
your  own  skins!  It  is  sad  to  look  at  you!" 

The  Witch  turned  aside,  with  contempt. 

Cries  floated  up  from  the  street. 

"Can  they  be  breaking  down  the  idols?"  asked 
the  glass-maker  delightedly. 

"Forward!  citizens,  follow  me!"  said  Strombi- 
cus  waving  his  arms,  and  he  tried  to  leap  up  from 
the  table,  but  slipped  and  would  have  rolled  on 
the  floor  if  the  faithful  Aragarius  had  not  caught 
him  in  a  tender  embrace. 

All  rushed  to  the  doors.  From  the  chief  street 
of  Singon  a  vast  crowd  was  moving  forward,  and 
choking  the  narrow  by-street;  it  halted  before  the 
baths. 

"The  aged  Pamba,  the  aged  Pamba!"  the  people 
in  the  crowd  cried  to  each  other,  joyfully.  "He 
has  come  from  the  desert  to  heal  the  people;  to 
overthrow  the  mighty,  and  save  the  weak!" 


CHAPTER  XI. 

SAINT  AND  CAESAR. 

The  old  man  had  a  coarse  face  with  high  cheek- 
bones. He  wore  his  hair  long.  Instead  of  a  tunic, 
he  wore  a  patched  linen  sack,  instead  of  a  cloak,  a 
dusty  sheep-skin,  with  a  hood  for  his  head.  In 
walking,  he  leant  on  a  long  stick  with  a  sharp 
iron  point.  For  twenty  years,  Pamba  had  not 
washed  because  he  considered  every  care  for  the 
body  a  sin  and  believed  that  there  -was  a  special 
demon  of  physical  cleanness.  In  the  frightful 
wilderness  of  Chalcedonian  Berea,  to  the  east  of 
Antioch,  where  the  snakes  and  scorpions  nest  at 
the  bottom  of  dried  up  wells,  he  had  lived  in  a 
long  dry  reservoir,  called  in  Syrian  "kubba;"  and 
feeding  on  five  stalks  of  a  sweet  farinaceous  reed 
a  day,  he  had  almost  died  of  exhaustion.  His  dis- 
ciples began  to  lower  food  to  him  on  a  string.  For 
seven  years  he  lived  each  day  on  a  half  sextarius 
of  lentils  soaked  in  water.  His  eye-sight  grew 
weak.  His  skin  was  covered  with  itch  and  scabs. 
Then  he  added  a  little  oil  to  his  food.  But  he 
began  to  accuse  himself  of  sensuality. 

Pamba  heard  from  his  disciples  that  the  fierce 
Antichrist  Julian  was  persecuting  Christ's  flock, 
and  leaving  the  desert,  he  came  to  Antioch  to  con- 
firm those  who  were  wavering  in  the  faith. 

"Listen,  listen!    The  saint  is  going  to  speak!" 

Pamba  ascended  the  steps  in  front  of  the  baths, 
and  took  his  stand  on  the  marble  slab  at  the  foot 
of  the  lamp. 
330 


Saint  and  Caesar.  331 

His  eyes  gleamed  with  a  fierce  fire.  He  waved 
his  hand,  pointing  to  the  palaces,  heathen  temples, 
baths,  shops,  courts  and  monuments  of  Antioch. 

"ISTot  one  stone  will  be  left  standing  upon  an- 
other. All  shall  pass  away;  all  shall  be  destroyed. 
Fire  shall  flash  forth,  and  consume  the  earth.  The 
heavens  shall  be  rent  apart,  like  a  burned  scroll. 
It  is  the  dread  judgment  of  Christ!  Whither  shall 
I  turn  my  eyes?  In  what  shall  I  take  delight? 
Shall  it  not  be  to  behold  the  kings  of  the  earth, 
cast  into  outer  darkness?  Shall  it  not  be  to  see 
how  Aphrodite  and  her  little  son  Eros  tremble  in 
nakedness  before  the  Crucified?  To  see  how  Zeus 
with  his  bolts  put  out  and  all  the  Olympians  flee 
before  the  thunders  of  the  Most  High?  Triumph, 
ye  martyrs!  Eejoice,  ye  who  are  persecuted! 
Where  are  your  judges,  the  Eoman  governors  and, 
consuls?  They  are  caught  in  a  flame  hotter  than 
that  which  burned  the  Christians.  The  philoso- 
phers, rejoicing  in  their  vain  wisdom,  blush  with 
shame  before  their  disciples,  blazing  in  hell,  and 
neither  the  syllogisms  of  Aristotle  nor  the  demon- 
strations of  Plato  avail  them.  The  tragic  actors 
cry  out,  as  they  never  cried  in  the  tragedies  of 
Sophocles  and  /Eschylus.  The  rope-dancers  leap 
in  the  fire  of  hell,  with  a  zeal  not  seen  before. 
Then  we,  the  people,  coarse  and  unlearned,  shall 
tremble  with  joy,  and  shall  say  to  the  proud,  the 
wise,  and  the  mighty:  'Look,  oh  scoffer!  behold  the 
Crucified,  the  Son  of  the  Carpenter;  behold  the 
King  of  the  Jews,  clothed  in  purple,  and  crowned 
with  thorns!  Samaritans,  behold  the  Sabbath- 
breaker,  the  possessed  of  devils!  This  is  He  whom 
ye  bound  in  the  Pretorium,  in  whose  face  ye  spat, 
to  whom  ye  gave  vinegar  and  gall  to  drink!  And 


332  Julian  the  Apostate. 

\ve  shall  hear  in  answer  a  weeping  and  gnashing  of 
teeth,  and  we  shall  laugh,  and  delight  our  hearts 
with  gladness.  Even  so,  Come  Lord  Jesus!" 

Gluturinus  the  sewer-cleaner  fell  on  his  knees, 
and  blinking  his  swollen  lids,  stretched  out  his 
hands  as  if  he  saw  the  coming  Christ.  The  cop- 
per-smith, clenching  his  fists,  grew  rigid  like  a  hull 
preparing  to  make  an  angry  charge.  The  pale, 
lank  weaver,  trembling  in  all  his  limbs,  smiled 
senselessly  and  murmured:  "Lord,  let  me  suffer!" 

On  the  coarse  faces  of  the  vagabonds  and  toilers 
was  a  wild  expression  of  triumph,  the  triumph  of 
the  weak  over  the  strong,  the  slaves  over  their 
masters.  The  harlot  Witch  gnashed  her  teeth, 
with  a  noiseless  laugh,  and  an  insatiate  thirst  of 
revenge  gleamed  in  her  drunken  and  threatening 
eyes.  Suddenly  the  rattle  of  weapons,  and  the 
regular  tramp  of  horses  was  heard. 

Bound  the  corner  appeared  the  Roman  legion- 
aries, the  night-watch.  In  front  of  them  was  the 
prefect  of  the  East,  Sallustius  Secundus.  He  had 
the  head  of  a  Roman  official,  a  curved  aquiline 
nose,  a  broad,  bare  head,  and  wise,  calm,  kind 
eyes.  A  simple  senatorial  lateclave  covered  him. 
In  his  whole  bearing  there  was  nothing  bombastic, 
but  the  self-confident  dignity  and  nobility  of  a 
Roman  patrician. 

From  behind  the  dome  of  the  Pantheon  erected 
by  Antiochus  Seleucus,  the  huge,  dull  red  disk  of 
the  moon  rose  slowly,  and  threatening  gleams 
shimmered  on  the  bronze  shields  of  the  Romans, 
on  their  breast-plates  and  helmets. 

"Disperse,  citizens,"  Sallustius  turned  to  the 
crowd;  "it  is  forbidden  by  the  blessed  Augustus  to 


Saint  and  Caesar.  333 

hold  assemblies  by  night  in  the  streets  of  An- 
tioch." 

The  mob  muttered  and  wavered.  The  street 
boys  began  to  whistle.  An  impudent,  shrill  boyish 
voice  sang: 

"Sorrow  to  the  poor  fowls, 

Sorrow  to  the  oxen  white, 
For  the  emperor  of  Rome 
Gives  them  to  the  gods  of  night ! " 

The  sharp  threatening  ring  of  steel  was  heard: 
it  was  the  Roman  legionaries,  drawing  their  swords 
from  their  scabbards,  ready  to  attack  the  crowd. 

Old  Pamba  struck  the  iron  point  of  his  staff  on 
the  marble  slab,  and  cried: 

"Hail,  brave  host  of  Satan,  hail,  wise  Koman 
leader.  You  have  recalled  the  days  of  old,  when 
you  burnt  us,  and  we  prayed  God  for  you.  Well, 
do  your  will!" 

The  legionaries  raised  their  swords.  The  pre- 
fect stopped  them  with  a  movement  of  his  hand. 

He  saw  that  the  crowd  was  in  his  power. 

"What  do  you  threaten  us  with,  fools?"  contin- 
ued Pamba,  turning  to  Sallustius;  "what  can  you 
do?  One  hot  night,  and  two  or  three  torches  will 
suffice  for  our  revenge.  You  fear  the  Alemans  and 
Persians — we  are  more  terrible  than  Persian  or 
Aleman!  We  are  everywhere.  We  are  among  you, 
innumerable;  impalpable!  We  have  no  limits,  no 
fatherland;  we  recognize  one  kingdom,  the  King- 
dom of  Heaven!  We  are  but  of  yesterday,  yet  we 
fill  the  world:  your  cities,  fortresses,  islands,  mu- 
nicipalities, councils,  camps,  tribes,  decuries,  pal- 
aces, senates,  forums, — only  your  temples  we  leave 
to  you.  Oh,  how  we  could  overwhelm  you,  were  it 
not  for  our  humility,  our  brotherly  love,  did  we 


334  Julian  the  Apostate. 

not  desire  rather  to  be  slain  than  to  slay.  We 
need  neither  fire  nor  sword.  We  are  so  many  that 
we  need  only  depart  together,  and  you  perish. 
Your  cities  will  be  deserted,  you  will  be  stricken 
with  terror  at  your  loneliness, — the  silence  of  a 
world.  All  life  shall  cease,  stricken  by  death.  Re- 
member: the  Roman  Empire  endures  only  through 
the  mercy  of  the  Christians!" 

All  eyes  were  turned  towards  Pamba.  No  one 
noticed  that  a  man  in  the  coarse  gown  of  a  wan- 
dering philosopher,  with  a  yellow,  lean  face,  with 
disheveled  hair  and  a  long  black  beard,  surrounded 
by  several  companions,  had  quickly  passed  among 
the  Roman  legionaries  who  respectfully  made  way 
for  him.  He  bent  towards  the  prefect  Sallustius, 
and  whispered  to  him: 
"Why  are  you  delaying?" 

"If  we  wait,"  answered  Sallustius,  "they  will 
disperse  of  themselves.  The  Galileans  have  too 
many  martyrs  as  it  is,  for  us  to  make  any  new  ones. 
They  fly  to  death  like  bees  to  honey." 

The  man  in  the  philosopher's  gown,  stepping 
forward,  cried  in  a  loud,  clear  voice,  like  that  of  a 
general,  used  to  command: 

"Disperse  the  crowd!    Seize  the  rioters!" 
All  turned  at  once.    A  cry  of  fear  arose: 
"It  is  Augustus,  Augustus  Julian!" 
The  soldiers  charged  with  drawn  swords.    They 
knocked  down  the  old  rag-picker.     She  struggled 
under  the  feet  of  the  legionaries,  and  shrieked. 
Several  ran.     Little  Strombicus  was  the  first  to 
disappear.    The  crowd  got  locked  together.  Stones 
began  to  fly.  The  copper-smith,  protecting  Pamba, 
threw  stones  at  the  legionaries,  but  hit  the  Witch. 


Saint  and  Caesar.  335 

She  cried  out  shrilly,  and  fell,  covered  with  blood, 
thinking  that  she  was  dying  a  martyr. 

A  soldier  seized  Gluturinus.  But  the  sewer- 
cleaner  surrendered  with  such  readiness,  (the  posi- 
tion of  a  martyr,  honored  by  all,  seemed  to  him 
paradise,  in  comparison  with  his  daily  life  of  half- 
starvation) — and  his  garments  had  such  a  foul 
odor,  that  the  legionary  instantly  let  his  prisoner 
go  again. 

In  the  midst  of  the  crowd,  a  pedlar  had  got  un- 
intentionally entangled;  he  was  driving  an  ass, 
laden  with  fresh  cabbage.  He  had  listened  to  the 
saint  all  the  time,  open-mouthed.  Noticing  his 
danger,  he  wished  to  run  away,  but  the  ass  was  ob- 
stinate. In  vain  the  driver  struck  it  over  the  back 
with  his  stick,  and  clicked  his  tongue.  Sticking 
its  front  feet  firmly  against  the  ground,  laying 
back  its  ears,  and  lifting  its  tail,  the  beast  began 
to  bray  with  a  deafening  roar. 

And  for  a  long  time  the  voice  of  the  ass  echoed 
above  the  crowd,  victorious  and  ridiculous,  smoth- 
ering the  groans  of  the  dying,  the  shouting  of  the 
soldiers,  and  the  prayers  of  the  Galileans. 

The  physician  Oribazius,  who  was  among  Ju- 
lian's companions,  went  up  to  the  emperor: 

"Julian,  what  are  you  doing?  Is  this  worthy  of 
your  wisdom?" 

Augustus  looked  at  him,  frowning.  Oribazius 
grew  confused,  and  did  not  finish  his'sentence. 

Julian  had  not  only  altered,  but  had  grown  old, 
in  the  last  few  months:  on  his  haggard  face  was 
the  pitiful,  terrible  expression  which  comes  on 
people  who  are  attacked  by  a  slow,  incurable  ill- 
ness, or  are  possessed  by  a  dominating  idea,  which 
is  nigh  to  madness.  With  his  strong  hands,  he 


336  Julian  the  Apostate. 

was  tearing  to  pieces  a  papyrus  scroll,  which  had 
accidentally  fallen  into  his  hands,  without  noti- 
cing what  he  was  doing. 

Finally  the  Emperor  spoke,  in  a  low,  restrained 
whisper,  looking  straight  into  the  eyes  of  Oriba- 
sius: 

"Cease  to  importune  me,  you  and  others  like 
you,  with  fools'  counsels.  I  know  what  I  am 
doing.  With  rascals  who  do  not  believe  in  the 
gods,  you  cannot  speak  as  if  they  were  human 
beings;  you  must  trample  them  under  foot  like 
wild  beasts.  And  after  all,  what  does  it  matter  if 
a  dozen  Galileans  are  slain  by  the  hand  of  one  Hel- 
lene?" 

Oribasius  involuntarily  thought:  "How  like  he 
is  now  to  his  cousin  Constantius,  in  a  moment  of 
anger." 

Julian  cried  out  to  the  crowd,  in  a  voice  which 
seemed  even  to  himself  strange  and  unnatural: 

"I  am  still  Emperor,  by  the  grace  of  the  gods; 
hear  me  then,  Galileans!  You  may  laugh  at  my 
beard  and  my  dress,  but  not  at  the  laws  of  Eome. 
Understand,  I  punish  you,  not  for  your  faith  but 
for  rioting.  Put  the  rogue  in  chains!" 

With  trembling  hand  he  pointed  to  Pamba.  Two 
fair-haired,  blue-eyed  Batavians  with  good-na- 
tured faces  seized  the  old  man. 

"You  lie,  blasphemer!"  cried  the  triumphant 
Pamba,  "  you  are  punishing  us  for  our  faith!  Why 
do  you  not  spare  me,  as  a  while  ago  you  spared 
Maris,  the  blind  man  of  Chalcedon?  Why  do  you 
not  hide  your  efforts,  as  is  your  wont,  by  caresses, 
and  your  fish-hook  by  the  bait?  Where  is  your 
philosophy?  Or  are  the  times  changed?  Have  you 


=•••-•• 


The  Shrine  of  Apollo.  337 

gone  far?  Brothers,  let  us  fear,  not  the  Roman 
Caesar,  but  the  living  God!" 

No  one  thought  any  longer  of  running  away. 
The  victims  infected  each  other  with  their  fear- 
lessness. The  Batavians  and  Kelts  were  terrified 
at  their  readiness  to  die,  with  laughing,  gay,  sense- 
less faces.  Even  children  threw  themselves  before 
the  blows  of  sword  and  spear.  Julian  wished  to 
stop  the  slaughter,  but  it  was  too  late.  The  bees 
were  flying  to  the  honey.  He  could  only  exclaim 
with  despair  and  contempt: 

"Wretches,  if  you  are  so  weary  of  life,  is  it  so 
hard  to  find  a  rope,  or  a  precipice?" 

And  Pamba,  bound,  and  lifted  up,  cried  out 
more  triumphantly: 

"Slay  us,  slay  us,  Romans, — and  we  shall  multi- 
ply! Chains  are  our  liberty, — weakness  is  our 
strength,  our  victory  is  death!" 


CHAPTER  XII. 
THE  SHRINE  OF  APOLLO. 

Down  the  stream  of  the  Orontes,  forty  stadia 
from  Antioch,  was  the  famous  grove  of  Daphne, 
consecrated  to  Apollo. 

Once  the  virgin  nymph,  so  the  poets  tell,  fled 
from  the  embraces  of  Apollo.  She  stopped  at  the 
bank  of  the  Orontes,  faint  and  overtaken  by  the 
god.  She  turned  in  prayer  to  her  mother  Latona, 
who,  to  free  her  from  the  persecutions  of  the  Sun- 
god,  turned  her  into  a  laurel.  From  that  time 
forth  Apollo  loved  Daphne  the  laurel  more  than 


338  Julian  the  Apostate. 

all  trees,  and  her  proud  greenery,  that  the  sun's 
rays  cannot  penetrate,  but  ever  caress,  he  binds 
upon  his  lyre,  and  as  a  wreath  upon  his  curls. 
Phoebus  visits  the  spot  where  Daphne  was  trans- 
formed, the  thick  laurel  grove  in  the  valley  of  the 
Orontes,  and  mourns  for  her,  and  breathes  the 
scent  of  the  thick  leaves,  warmed  but  not  van- 
quished by  the  sun,  mysterious  and  full  of  gloom 
even  at  the  heat  of  noonday.  Here  men  built  him 
a  temple,  and  yearly  celebrate  a  sacred  festival  in 
honor  of  the  deity  of  the  sun. 

Julian  left  Antioch  early  in  the  morning,  inten- 
tionally leaving  his  purpose  unknown.  He  wished 
to  learn  whether  the  men  of  Antioch  remembered 
the  sacred  festival  of  Apollo.  On  the  way,  he 
thought  continually  of  the  celebration,  expecting 
to  see  crowds  of  worshippers,  choirs  in  honor  of 
Apollo,  libations,  the  smoke  of  incense,  youths 
and  maidens  ascending  the  steps  of  the  temple  in 
white  garments,  the  symbol  of  their  stainless 
youth. 

The  way  was  rough.  From  the  stony  plain  of 
Chalibonian  Berea,  a  hot  wind  blew  in  gusts.  The 
air  was  full  of  the  acrid  vapor  of  a  forest  fire,  a 
bluish  mist  drifting  down  from  the  dreamy  chasms 
of  the  Casian  hills.  The  dust  stung  his  eyes  and 
gritted  between  his  teeth.  Through  the  smoky 
hot  vapor,  the  sunlight  seemed  red  and  sickly. 

But  as  soon  as  the  emperor  entered  the  conse- 
crated grove  of  Apollo,  a  sweet-scented  freshness 
surrounded  him.  It  was  hard  to  believe  that  this 
paradise  was  only  a  few  steps  from  the  burning 
road.  The  grove  was  eighty  stadia  round.  Eter- 
nal twilight  reigned  here  under  the  impenetra- 


The  Shrine  of  Apollo.  33£ 

ble  shade  of  gigantic  laurels,  that  had  grown  there 
for  many  centuries. 

The  emperor  was  astonished  at  the  silence  in  the 
grove:  there  were  neither  worshippers,  nor  incense, 
nor  offerings, — no  preparations  whatever  for  the 
Panegyrian  festival.  He  thought  the  people  must 
be  nearer  the  temple,  and  went  on. 

At  every  step,  the  grove  seemed  more  deserted. 
A  strange  silence  reigned,  unbroken  by  a  single 
sound,  as  in  deserted  cemeteries.  Even  the  birds 
did  not  sing;  they  rarely  flew  thither.  The  shadow 
of  the  laurels  was  too  dense  for  them.  A  cicada 
began  to  shrill  in  the  grass,  but  immediately 
ceased  as  if  frightened  at  its  own  voice.  Only  in  a 
narrow  strip  of  sunlight,  the  noonday  insects 
hummed  faintly  and  sleepily,  not  daring  to  fly  be- 
yond the  boundary  of  the  light  into  the  surround- 
ing darkness. 

Julian  entered  a  wider  pathway  between  two 
velvety  gigantic  walls  of  everlasting  cypresses,  that 
cast  a  shade  black  as  coal,  almost  as  dark  as  night. 
From  them  came  a  breath  of  sweet  and  sombre 
perfume. 

In  one  part  of  a  crevice  of  rock  overgrown  with 
moss,  white  water-drops  were  gathering  and  fall- 
ing one  after  another,  but  the  thick  moss  dead- 
ened their  fall.  The  drops  fell  silent,  like  the 
tears  of  an  unspoken  love. 

There  were  whole  meadows  of  wild  narcissus, 
marguerites  and  lilies;  here  were  many  butterflies, 
not  colored,  but  black.  A  ray  of  the  midday  sun, 
that  struggled  through  the  laurels  and  cypresses, 
grew  pale  as  a  moon-beam,  almost  funereal  and 
soft  as  if  it  had  come  through  black  gauze,  or  the 
smoke  of  a  funeral  torch. 


340  Julian  the  Apostate. 

It  seemed  that  Phoebus  had  grown  pale  for  ever, 
from  the  incurable  coldness  of  Daphne,  who  had 
remained  gloomy  and  impenetrable,  under  the 
burning  kisses  of  the  god,  and  still  held  the  chilly 
shadows  of  night  under  the  boughs  of  the  laurels. 
And  everywhere  throughout  the  grove  reigned 
loneliness  and  silence,  the  sweet  sadness  of  the 
love-sick  god. 

Already  the  majestic  steps,  pedestals  and  col- 
umns of  the  temple  of  Daphne,  built  in  the  days 
of  the  Diadochians,  shone  blinding  in  their  white- 
ness among  the  cypresses,  and  Julian  had  not  met 
a  single  worshipper. 

At  last  he  saw  a  ten-year-old  boy,  following  a 
path  thickly  studded  with  hyacinths.  He  was  a 
weak,  even  sickly  child.  His  black  eyes  stood  out 
strangely,  shining  brightly  on  a  pale  little  face  of 
pure  Hellenic  beauty.  His  golden  locks  fell  in 
soft  ringlets  on  his  neck,  and  the  veins  on  his  tem- 
ples were  blue,  clear  as  the  veins  of  too  transparent 
leaves  that  have  grown  in  the  darkness. 

"Do  you  know,  child,  where  are  the  people  and 
the  priests?"  asked  Julian. 

The  boy  answered  nothing,  as  if  he  had  not 
heard  the  question. 

"Listen,  boy,  can  you  lead  me  to  the  chief  priest 
of  Apollo?" 

He  gently,  shook  his  head,  and  smiled. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?  Why  do  you  not 
answer?" 

Then  the  beautiful  child  pointed  to  his  lips,  and 
then  to  both  ears,  and  once  more  shook  his  head, 
this  time  without  smiling. 

"Julian  thought:  "He  must  have  been  dumb 
from  his  birth." 


The  Shrine  of  Apollo.  341 

The  boy,  laying  his  fingers  on  his  pale  red  lips, 
looked  at  the  emperor  under  his  brows. 

"An  evil  augury!"  muttered  Julian,  and  he  felt 
almost  terrified,  in  the  silence,  loneliness  and  twi- 
light of  Apollo's  grove,  with  tte  deaf  and  dumb 
child  who  gazed  steadily  and  enigmatically  into 
his  eyes,  beautiful  as  a  god.  At  last  he  pointed  to 
an  old  man  coming  from  among  the  trees,  in  a 
stained  and  tattered  garment,  and  whom  Julian 
immediately  recognized  as  the  priest.  The  old  fel- 
low,' bent,  decrepit,  tottering  slightly  like  a  man 
who  has  drunk  too  much,  laughed,  and  muttered 
something  as  he  went.  He  had  a  red  nose,  and  a 
round,  bald  pate,  fringed  with  thin  white  locks 
like  white  sheeps'  wool,  so  light  and  downy  that  it 
did  not  fall,  but  surrounded  the  bald  place  on  his 
head,  almost  standing  up.  In  his  bleared,  moist 
eyes,  the  old  drunkard  had  a  light  of  almost  child- 
ish good-nature.  He  was  carrying  a  wicker  basket. 

"The  priest  of  Apollo?"  asked  Julian. 

"That  is  who  I  am;  my  name  is  Gorgias.  And 
what  do  you  want,  here,  good  man?" 

"Can  you  show  me  where  the  high  priest  of  the 
temple  and  the  worshippers  are?" 

Gorgias  at  first  made  no  reply,  but  set  his  wicker 
basket  on  the  ground.  Then  he  began  to  rub  his 
bare  poll  in  a  concerned  way  with  his  palm,  then 
set  both  hands  upon  his  hips,  and  leaning  his  head 
on  one  side,  winked  one  eye,  not  without  a  certain 
air  of  roguishness: 

"And  why  should  I  myself  not  be  the  high 
priest  of  Apollo?"  he  said,  after  an  interval,  "and 
what  worshippers  do  you  speak  of,  my  son?  May 
the  Olympians  have  mercy  on  you!" 

He  smelt  strongly  of  wine.     Julian,  to  Avhom 


34:2  Julian  the  Apostate. 

the  high  priest  seemed  indecent,  was  preparing  to 
give  him  a  stern  rebuke. 

"Old  man,  you  must  be  drunk." 

Gorgias  was  quite  unabashed,  and  only  rubbed 
his  bare  crown  th§  harder,  and  winked  still  more 
knowingly. 

"Drunk,  well, — not  exactly  drunk.  But  I  did 
take  four  or  five  cups  for  the  Panegyria.  And 
even  so,  you  drink  in  sorrow,  not  in  joy.  So  it  is, 
my  son, — and  may  the  Olympians  bless  you.  And 
who  may  you  be  yourself?  Judging  from  your 
dress,  you  are  a  wandering  philosopher, — or  a 
school-teacher,  from  Antioch?" 

The  Emperor  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  He 
wished  to  question  the  priest  further. 

"You  have  guessed.    I  am  a  teacher." 

"A  Christian?" 

"No,  a  Hellene." 

"Oh,  that  is  it,  is  it?  A  lot  of  those  godless  folk 
come  here." 

"Still  you  have  not  answered  me,  old  man; 
where  are  the  people?  Have  they  brought  many 
offerings  from  Antioch?  Are  the  choirs  ready?" 

"Offerings?  What  next?"  laughed  the  old  man; 
and  wagged  his  head  so  vigorously  that  he  almost 
fell, — "why  friend,  we  have  not  had  any  this  long 
time, — since  Constantine's  days!" 

Gorgias  waved  his  hand  with  a  gesture  of  de- 
spair, and  cried: 

"It  is  all  over!  Men  have  forgotten  the  gods. 
As  for  offerings,  we  have  never  even  an  offering  of 
flour  to  bake  the  god  a  cake,  or  a  grain  of  incense, 
or  a  drop  of  oil  for  his  lamp.  Lie  down  and  die — 
that  is  all  that  is  left,  my  son,  and  may  the  Olym- 
pians bless  you!  The  monks  have  taken  every- 


The  Shrine  of  Apollo.  343 

thing  away.  And  they  fight  into  the  bargain. 
Our  little  song  is  sung.  The  times  are  evil.  And 
you  say:  Do  not  drink!  You  must  drink  to  drown 
your  sorrow.  If  I  did  not  drink,  I  would  have 
hung  myself  long  ago." 

"No  one  has  come  from  Antioch,  for  so  great  a 
festival?"  asked  Julian. 

"No  one  but  yourself,  my  son.  I  am  the  priest; 
you  are  the  people.  We'll  offer  a  sacrifice  together." 

"You  just  said  that  not  a  single  offering  had 
been  brought  to  you." 

Gorgias  caressed  his  bald  head  with  satisfaction. 

"Other  folk  brought  nothing:  I  have  one  of  my 
own.  I  looked  to  it  myself.  Euphorion  and  I 
went  hungry  for  three  days,"  he  went  on,  pointing 
to  the  deaf  and  dumb  boy,  "to  save  up  for  an  offer- 
ing. Look!" 

He  raised  the  wicker  lid  of  the  basket.  A  goose 
lifted  its  head  and  hissed,  trying  to  get  free. 

"Ha-ha-ha!  Isn't  that  an  offering?"  asked 
the  old  man,  proudly,  "though  the  goose  is  no 
longer  young  nor  very  fat,  still  it  is  a  good  and 
holy  bird.  Apollo  ought  to  be  glad  of  it,  as  times 
go.  The  steam  of  it  will  be  good.  The  gods  are 
fond  of  geese,"  he  added,  winking  his  eye,  with  a 
sly  and  piercing  expression. 

"Have  you  lived  long  in  this  temple?"  asked 
Julian. 

"A  long  time,  now.  Forty  years, — may  be 
more." 

"Is  this  your  son?"  said  the  emperor,  pointing 
to  Euphorion,  who  had  been  watching  all  the  time 
with  a  fixed  and  thoughtful  gaze,  as  if  trying  to 
guess  what  they  were  saying. 

"No,  he  is  not  my  son.    I  have  neither  friends 


344  Julian  the  Apostate. 

nor  kindred.  Euphorion  assists  me  in  the  ser- 
vices." 

"Who  are  his  parents?" 

"His  father  I  do  not  know,  and  I  doubt  if  any 
one  knows.  But  his  mother  was  the  great  Sibyl, 
Diotime,  who  lived  many  years  in  this  temple.  She 
never  spoke  with  men  nor  raised  her  veil  before 
them,  and  was  perfect  as  a  vestal.  When  her  child 
was  born,  we  wondered  and  did  not  know  what  to 
think.  But  a  wise  centenarian  priest,  a  hierophant, 
told  us." 

And  with  a  mysterious  face,  Gorgias,  shading 
his  mouth  with  his  palm,  whispered  in  Julian's 
ear,  as  if  the  boy  might  overhear: 

"The  hierophant  said  that  the  child  was  not  the 
son  of  a  mortal,  but  of  a  god  who  had  secretly 
come  by  night  to  the  Sibyl's  embraces,  when  she 
was  asleep  within  the  temple.  You  see  how  beau- 
tiful he  is?" 

"A  deaf  and  dumb  boy, — the  son  of  a  god?" 
interrupted  the  emperor,  astonished. 

"What  then?  If  in  such  times  as  ours,"  went 
on  the  priest,  "the  son  of  a  god  and  a  prophetess 
was  not  deaf  and  dumb,  he  would  die  of  shame. 
Look  how  thin  and  pale  he  is,  even  as  it  is!" 

"Who  knows?"  muttered  Julian,  with  a  mourn- 
ful smile.  "May  be  you  are  right,  old  man, — it  is 
better  for  a  prophet  to  be  dumb  in  our  days." 

Suddenly  the  boy  came  up  to  Julian,  quickly 
seized  him  by  the  hand  and  kissed  it,  looking  into 
his  eyes  with  a  strange,  deep  gaze. 

Julian  started. 

"My  son,"  said  the  old  fellow,  with  a  trium- 
phant and  joyful  smile.  "May  the  Olympians  bless 
you!  You  must  be  a  good  man.  The  boy  never 


The  Shrine  of  Apollo.  345 

caresses  the  evil  or  impure.  He  runs  away  from 
the  monks,  as  from  the  plague.  It  seems  to  me 
that  he  sees  and  hears  more  than  we  do,  only  he 
cannot  tell  about  it.  I  have  sometimes  found  him 
alone  in  the  temple:  he  would  sit  whole  hours  be- 
fore the  image  of  Apollo  and  watch  it,  and  smile 
as  if  he  was  talking  with  the  god." 

Euphorion's  face  clouded  over,  and  he  went 
softly  away  from  them. 

Gorgias  regretfully  struck  himself  on  the  bald 
crown,  shook  himself,  and  said: 

"But  why  do  I  stay  here  gossiping  with  you? 
The  sun  is  high.  It  is  time  to  offer  the  sacrifice. 
Come." 

"Wait,  old  man,"  said  the  emperor;  "I  wished 
to  ask  you  something  more:  have  you  heard  that 
the  Emperor  Julian  has  resolved  to  set  up  the 
worship  of  the  old  gods  again?" 

"How  should  I  not  hear  it?"  the  priest  shook  his 
head  incredulously,  and  waved  his  hand.  "What 
can  he  do,  poor  fellow?  Nothing  will  come  of  it. 
It  is  useless.  I  tell  you  it  is  all  over!" 

"You  believe  in  the  gods!"  said  Julian.  "Can 
the  Olympians  desert  mankind  for  ever?" 

The  old  man  sighed  deeply,  and  bent  his  head: 

"My  son,  you  are  young,"  he  said,  at  last, — "al- 
though the  early  grey  is  touching  your  locks  and 
there  are  wrinkles  on  your  brow.  But  in  the  days 
when  my  white  hair  was  black  and  the  girls  looked 
at  me,  I  remember  we  were  once  sailing  in  a  ship 
not  far  from  Thessalonica,  and  we  saw  Mount 
Olympus  from  the  sea.  Its  base  and  middle  were 
wrapped  in  a  light  blue  mist,  but  the  snowy  sum- 
mits soared  in  the  air,  and  gleamed,  a  glory  in  the 
sky  above  the  sea,  and  unapproachable  in  their 


346  Julian  the  Apostate. 

golden  light.  And  I  thought  to  myself:  That  is 
where  the  gods  live!  And  my  heart  was  full  of 
awe.  But  on  the  same  boat  there  was  an  old  man, 
an  evil  jester  who  called  himself  an  Epicurean. 
He  pointed  to  Mount  Olympus  and  said:  'My 
friends,  many  years  have  passed  since  travelers 
reached  the  summit  of  Olympus.  They  found  that 
it  was  an  ordinary  mountain,  just  like  any  other. 
There  was  nothing  there  but  snow,  ice,  and  stones.' 
Thus  he  spoke,  and  his  words  sank  deep  into  my 
heart,  and  I  have  remembered  them,  all  my  life." 

The  emperor  smiled. 

"Old  man,  your  faith  is  childish.  If  there  are 
no  gods  on  Olympus,  why  should  they  not  be  still 
higher,  in  the  realm  of  eternal  Ideas,  in  the  king- 
dom of  spiritual  light?" 

Gorgias'  head  sank  still  lower,  and  he  scratched 
his  poll  despondently. 

"That  is  so.  But  all  the  same,  it  is  all  over. 
Olympus  is  empty!" 

Julian  looked  at  him  silent  and  wondering. 

"You  see,"  continued  Gorgias,  "the  earth  now 
gives  birth  to  people  as  weak  as  they  are  cruel  and 
hard-hearted.  The  gods  can  only  mock  them  or 
grow  wroth  at  them.  It  is  not  worth  while  to  de- 
stroy them.  They  will  perish  themselves,  of  sick- 
ness and  corruption  and  weariness.  The  gods  have 
grown  tired,  and  have  departed." 

"And  you  think,  Gorgias,  that  the  human  race 
must  perish?" 

The  priest  shook  his  head. 

"Oh — ho — ho,  my  son!  may  the  Olympians  save 
you!  All  is  going  to  wrack  and  ruin.  The  earth 
is  growing  old.  The  rivers  flow  slower.  An  old 
boatman  told  me,  not  long  ago,  that  when  you  are 


The  Shrine  of  Apollo.  347 

sailing  away  from  Sicily,  you  cannot  see  Etna  at 
so  great  a  distance  as  of  old.  The  air  has  grown 
thicker  and  darker.  The  sun  has  grown  dim.  The 
end  of  the  world  is  at  hand." 

"Tell  me,  Gorgias, — in  your  memory,  were  there 
ever  better  times?" 

The  old  man  brightened  up,  and  his  eyes 
gleamed  with  the  fire  of  recollection: 

"When  I  came  here,  in  the  first  years  of  Con- 
stantino's reign,"  he  answered  joyfully,  "there 
were  still  great  Panegyria  every  year  in  Apollo's 
honor.  How  many  lovers,  youths  and  maidens, 
used  to  gather  in  the  sacred  grove!  And  how  the 
moon  shone,  and  how  the  cypresses  smelt,  and  how 
the  nightingales  sang!  And  when  their  songs  died 
away,  the  air  trembled  with  the  nightly  kisses  and 
the  sighs  of  the  lovers,  like  the  whisper  of  unseen 
wings.  Those  were  the  times!" 

Then  Gorgias  ceased,  and  fell  into  melancholy 
thought. 

At  that  same  moment,  the  sad  sound  of  church 
singing  was  clearly  borne  to  them  from  beyond  the 
trees. 

"What  is  that?"  asked  Julian. 

"The  monks,"  answered  the  priest,  "every  day 
they  pray  over  the  bones  of  a  dead  Galilean." 

"What? — a  dead  Galilean  here,  in  the  sacred 
grove  of  Apollo?" 

"Yes.  They  call  him  the  martyr  Babylas.  Ten 
years  ago,  the  Emperor  Julian's  brother,  Cffisar 
Gallus  brought  the  dead  bones  of  Babylas  from 
Antioch  to  Daphne's  grove,  and  built  a  splendid 
sarcophagus  over  them.  Since  then,  the  prophe- 
cies have  ceased.  The  temple  is  polluted  and  the 
god  has  departed." 


'348  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"What  sacrilege!"  cried  the  emperor,  in  anger. 

"It  was  that  same  year/'  continued  the  old  man, 
rtthat  the  virgin  Sibyl  Diotime  gave  birth  to  a  deaf 
and  dumb  son,  which  was  an  augury  of  ill.  The 
waters  of  the  Castalian  spring,  choked  by  a  stone, 
grew  scant,  and  lost  their  prophetic  power.  Only 
one  of  the  sacred  streams  has  not  dried  up;  it  is 
called  'the  Tears  of  the  Sun;'  you  see  it  there, 
where  my  boy  is  now  sitting.  Drop  by  drop,  it 
oozes  forth  from  the  mossy  stone.  They  say  that 
Helios  is  weeping  for  the  nymph  who  was  turned 
into  a  laurel.  Euphorion  sits  whole  days  there." 

Julian  looked  up.  The  boy  was  sitting  motion- 
less in  front  of  the  mossy  stone,  and  stretching 
out  his  palm,  was  collecting  the  falling  drops.  A 
sunbeam  pierced  through  the  laurels,  and  the  slow- 
tears  sparkled  in  it,  silent  and  unassuaged.  The 
shadows  were  strangely  tremulous,  and  Julian  fan- 
cied for  a  moment  that  he  saw  two  transparent 
wings  flutter  behind  the  back  of  the  child,  beauti- 
ful as  a  child  of  the  gods.  He  was  so  pale,  so  fra- 
gile, so  lovely,  that  the  emperor  involuntarily 
thought:  'It  is  Eros  himself,  the  little  old  god  of 
love,  sick  and  dying  in  our  age  of  Galilean  sadness. 
He  is  gathering  the  last  tears  of  love,  the  tears  of 
the  god  for  Daphne,  for  vanished  beauty." 

The  deaf  mute  sat  motionless,  and  a  great  black 
butterfly,  velvety  and  funereal,  alighted  on  his 
head.  He  did  not  notice  it,  and  did  not  move. 
Like  an  ill-omened  shade,  it  hovered  over  his  bent 
head.  And  the  golden  Tears  of  the  Sun,  one  after 
the  other,  fell  slowly  into  Euphorion's  pink  hand, 
and  round  him  spread  the  sounds  of  the  church 
singing,  funereal  and  hopeless,  rising  ever  louder 
and  louder. 


The  Shrine  of  Apollo.  349 

Suddenly  the  voices  of  disputants  were  heard 
from  behind  the  cypress-trees. 

"Augustus  is  here." 

"Why  should  he  come  alone  to  Daphne?" 

"Because  this  is  the  day  of  the  great  Panegyria 
of  Apollo.  Look,  he  is  there!  Julian  we  have 
been  seeking  you  since  early  morning!" 

The  speakers  were  the  Greek  sophists,  learned 
men,  and  rhetoricians,  the  emperor's  wonted  com- 
panions. Here  were  the  ascetic,  the  neo-Pythago- 
rean  Prisons  from  Epirus,  and  the  bilious  sceptic 
Junius  Mauricus,  and  the  wise  Sallustius  Secun- 
dus,  and  the  renowned  Antiochian  orator  Liba- 
nius,  vainest  of  men. 

Augustus  paid  no  attention  to  them,  and  did 
not  even  greet  them. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  him?"  muttered  Ju- 
nius Mauricus,  in  Priscus'  ear. 

"He  is  probably  dissatisfied  to  find  that  no  prep- 
arations were  made  for  the  festival.  We  have  been 
careless,  indeed!  not  a  single  sacrifice." 

Julian  turned  to  Hecebolus  the  former  Chris- 
tian orator,  and  now  high  priest  of  Astarte: 

"Go  to  the  chapel  over  there,  and  announce  to 
them  my  command  that  the  Galileans  who  are  cel- 
ebrating a  service  over  the  relics  should  come 
here." 

Hecebolus  went  to  the  chapel  hidden  among  the 
trees,  whence  came  the  sounds  of  singing. 

Gorgias,  holding  the  basket  with  the  goose  in 
his  right  hand  stood  motionless  with  staring  eyes. 
Sometimes,  with  desperate  energy,  he  took  to 
scratching  his  pate.  He  thought  he  had  drunk  too 
much  wine,  and  that  he  was  dreaming  it  all.  A 
oold  sweat  gathered  on  the  poor  old  man's  brow, 


350  Julian  the  Apostate. 

when  he  remembered  what  he  had  said  to  that 
supposed  school-teacher,  about  Julian  Augustus, 
and  the  gods.  His  knees  knocked  together  in  ter- 
ror. He  knelt  before  Julian: 

"Oh  Cffisar,  be  gracious!  Forget  my  rash  words. 
I  did  not  know." 

One  of  the  officious  philosophers  wished  to  drive 
the  old  man  away: 

"Where  are  you  going?  get  away,  old  fool!" 

Julian  stopped  him: 

"Do  not  insult  the  priest.  Rise,  Gorgias!  Here 
is  my  hand.  Do  not  fear.  While  I  live,  no  one 
shall  harm  you  or  your  boy.  We  have  both  come 
to  the  Panegyria;  we  both  love  the  old  gods, — let 
us  be  friends,  and  meet  the  festival  of  the  Sun 
with  glad  hearts." 

The  church  singing  ceased.  In  the  cypress  alley 
appeared  the  pale  frightened  monks,  deacons,  and 
the  priest  himself,  who  had  not  had  time  to  re- 
move his  stole.  Hecebolus  led  them.  The  presby- 
ter, a  fat  man  with  a  shining,  bronze-red  face, 
puffed,  blew,  and  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  brow. 
Stopping  before  Augustus,  he  bowed  low,  bringing 
his  hand  to  the  earth,  and  spoke  in  a  thick,  pleas- 
ant bass  which  the  worshippers  were  particularly 
fond  of: 

"May  the  most  humane  Augustus  have  mercy 
on  his  unworthy  slaves." 

He  bowed  still  lower,  and  when  he  rose  again, 
muttering,  two  young  acolytes,  who  greatly  resem- 
bled each  other,  lank,  with  faces  yellow  as  wax, 
supported  him  on  either  side,  holding  his  hands. 
One  of  them  had  forgotten  to  leave  his  censer,  and 
a  fine  thread  of  smoke  rose  from  the  embers.  Eu- 


The  Shrine  of  Apollo.  351 

phorion,  seeing  the  monks  from  afar,  immediately 
ran  away.    Julian  spoke: 

"Galileans!  Before  to-morrow  night,  I  com- 
mand you  to  clear  the  grove  of  Apollo  of  this  dead 
man's  bones.  We  do  not  wish  to  employ  force 
against  you,  but  if  our  will  is  not  executed,  we 
shall  take  measures  ourselves  to  free  Helios  from 
the  sacrilegious  presence  of  these  Galilean  ashes. 
I  shall  send  my  soldiers  here,  to  dig  up  the  bones, 
and  burn  them,  and  cast  the  ashes  to  the  winds. 
Such  is  our  will,  citizens!" 

The  presbyter  coughed  gently,  covering  his 
mouth  with  his  palm,  and  finally  murmured  in  a 
most  humble  voice: 

"Most  gracious  Caesar,  this  is  of  course  most 
grievous  for  us,  because  for  a  long  time  already 
have  these  relics  rested  in  a  sanctified  place,  ac- 
cording to  the  will  of  the  Caesar  Gallus.  But  the 
matter  is  beyond  our  power;  we  shall  lay  it  before 
the  bishop." 

A  noise  was  heard  in  the  crowd.  A  boy,  hiding 
behind  a  laurel-bush  was  singing: 

The  butcher  comes, 

With  a  big,  sharp  knife, 

And  his  beard  hangs  down, 

With  its  black,  black  wool, 

With  its  long,  long  wool, 

Like  a  he-goat's  beard, — 

Make  a  rope  of  it — 

But  some  one  gave  the  boy  such  a  slap,  that  he 
ran  away  howling. 

The  presbyter,  thinking  that  for  decency's  sake, 
he  ought  to  make  a  stand  for  the  relics,  again 
began,  humbly  coughing  in  his  hand: 

"If  it  pleases  thy  wisdom  to  decree  this,  because 
of  the  idol—" 


352  Julian  the  Apostate. 

He  quickly  corrected  himself: 
"—That  is,  the  Hellenic  god,  Helios— " 
The  emperor's  eyes  flashed  with  anger. 
"The  idol!"  he  interrupted  the  priest,  "the  idol, 
— that  was  your  word.  What  fools  do  you  take  us 
to  be,  if  you  think  we  deify  the  substance  of  the 
images,  the  bronze,  or  stone,  or  wood?  All  your 
preachers  try  to  make  themselves  and  others  and 
even  us  believe  that!  But  it  is  a  lie!  We  honor 
not  the  dead  stone,  bronze,  or  wood,  but  the  soul, 
the  living  soul  of  beauty  in  our  images,  symbols  of 
the  highest  human  joy.  It  is  not  we  who  are  idol- 
aters, but  you,  who  fight  like  wild  beasts  for 
'homo-ousios,'  and  'homoi-ousios,'  for  a  single 
iota,  you  who  kiss  the  rotten  bones  of  criminals, 
punished  for  breaking  the  Roman  laws,  you  who 
called  the  fratricide  Constantius  'his  Eternity/ 
and  'his  Holiness.'  We  deify  a  splendid  sculpture 
of  Phidias  which  breathes  Olympian  beauty  and 
wisdom;  is  not  this  wiser  than  to  bow  down  before 
two  wooden  beams,  fastened  cross-wise, — a  base 
instrument  of  punishment?  Ought  I  to  blush  for 
you,  or  to  pity  you,  or  to  hate  you?  It  is  the 
crown  of  folly  and  dishonor  for  our  land  that  the 
descendants  of  the  Hellenes,  who  have  read  Homer 
and  Plato,  should  betake  themselves  —  whither? 
oh,  baseness,  to  an  outcast  tribe  almost  destroyed 
by  Vespasian  and  Titus,  to  deify — a  dead  Jew. 
And  yet  you  dare  to  accuse  us  of  idolatry!" 

The  presbyter,  unabashed,  stroking  his  soft  sil- 
very-black beard  with  his  five  fingers,  looked 
askance  at  Julian  with  a  bored  and  weary  look, 
and  wiped  big  drops  of  sweat  from  his  shining 
forehead. 


The  Shrine  of  Apollo.  353 

Then  the  emperor  said  to  the  philosopher  Pris- 
cus: 

"My  friend,  you  know  the  old  rites  of  the  Hel- 
lenes. Accomplish  the  Delian  mystery  necessary 
to  purify  Apollo's  temple  from  the  sacrilegious 
presence  of  these  dead  bones.  The  god  will  return 
to  his  dwelling-place,  the  old  oracles  will  be  re- 
stored as  soon  as  the  stone  is  removed  from  the 
Castalian  spring." 

The  presbyter  closed  the  meeting  with  a  pro- 
found bow,  with  the  humility  in  which  invincible 
obstinacy  is  felt. 

"Be  it  according  to  thy  will,  most  potent  Augus- 
tus! We  are  children.  Thou  art  our  father.  In 
the  Scripture,  it  is  said:  'Let  every  soul  be  subject 
unto  the  higher  powers.  For  there  is  no  power, 
but  of  God/  " 

"Oh  hypocrites!"  exclaimed  the  emperor,  "I 
know,  I  know  your  humility  and  obedience.  Eise 
up  against  me,  and  fight  like  men !  Your  humility 
is  your  serpent's  sting,  slaves!  With  it  you  poison 
those  whom  you  bow  down  before.  Your  own 
Teacher  well  said  of  you:  'Woe  unto  you,  Scribes 
and  Pharisees,  hypocrites,  for  ye  are  like  unto 
whited  sepulchres,  which  indeed  appear  beautiful 
outward,  but  are  within  full  of  dead  men's  bones 
and  of  all  uncleanness!'  In  truth  ye  have  filled 
the  world  with  dead  men's  bones,  and  uncleanness. 
You  fall  down  before  dead  bones,  and  expect  to 
be  saved  l>y  them.  Like  sepulchral  worms,  you 
feed  on  decay.  Is  that  what  Jesus  taught?  Bid 
He  command  you  to  hate  your  brothers,  whom  you 
call  heretics,  because  they  do  not  believe  as  you  be- 
lieve? The  words  of  the  Galilean  are  applied  to 
you  out  of  my  mouth:  'Woe  unto  you  Scribes  and 


354  Julian  the  Apostate. 

Pharisees,  hypocrites!  oh  generation  of  vipers, 
how  will  ye  flee  from  the  wrath  to  come?' " 

He  turned  to  go  away,  when  suddenly  an  old 
man  and  an  old  woman  came  forth  from  the  crowd 
and  threw  themselves  at  the  emperor's  feet.  Both 
of  them  in  poor,  tattered,  garments,  but  well- 
favored  and  greatly  resembling  each  other,  with 
birdlike  faces  and  kindly  wrinkles  around  their 
bleared  eyes,  they  recalled  Philemon  and  Baucis. 

"Protect  us,  just  Ca3sar!"  begged  the  old  man; 
"we  have  a  little  house  in  the  suburb  of  Antioch, 
at  the  foot  of  Staurinus.  We  have  lived  in  it 
twenty  years.  We  reverenced  God.  Then  sud- 
denly, the  other  day,  the  decurions — " 

At  this  point,  the  old  man  clasped  his  hands  in 
despair,  and  the  old  woman  clasped  hers:  her  every 
movement  mimicked  his. 

"The  decurions  come  and  say:  'The  house  isn't 
yours!'  'How?  not  ours?  The  Lord  be  with  you. 
We  have  owned  it  for  twenty  years.'  'You  have 
occupied  it,  but  against  the  law.  The  land  belongs 
to  the  temple  of  the  god  ^Esculapius,  and  the 
foundations  of  the  house  are  laid  on  stones  of  the 
ruined  shrine.  We  are  going  to  take  your  land 
away,  and  restore  it  to  yEsculapius.'  What  are  we 
to  do?  be  merciful  to  us,  all-powerful  Augustus!" 

The  old  couple  knelt  before  him,  clean  and  de- 
cent, like  children,  kissing  his  feet  in  tears.  Ju- 
lian noticed  an  amber  cross  on  the  old  woman's 
neck: 

"Christians?"  he  asked,  clouding  over. 

"Yes." 

"I  would  gladly  grant  your  request.  But  what 
can  I  do?  The  ground  belongs  to  the  god.  But 


The  Shrine  of  Apollo.  355 

I  will  give  orders  to  pay  you  the  value  of  the  prop- 
erty." 

"No,  no,  we  do  not  want  that/'  said  the  old  cou- 
ple, "we  have  grown  accustomed  to  the  place. 
Everything  there  is  ours.  We  know  every  blade  of 
grass.  We  do  not  want  money." 

"Everything  there  is  ours,"  said  the  old  woman, 
like  an  echo,  "our  vineyard,  our  olives,  our  chick- 
ens, our  cow,  our  little  pigs,  everything  our  own. 
And  there  is  the  little  bench  on  which  we  have  sat 
of  an  evening,  for  twenty  years,  warming  our  old 
bones  in  the  sun." 

The  emperor,  not  listening,  turned  to  the  fright- 
ened crowd,  standing  further  off: 

"This  is  the  last  time  the  Galileans  shall  besiege 
me  with  requests  for  the  restoration  of  church 
lands.  Thus  the  Valentinians  from  the  city  of 
Edessa  complain  of  the  Arians,  who,  they  say,  took 
away  their  land.  To  cut  the  quarrel  short,  I  gave 
one  part  of  the  disputed  property  to  my  Gallic  vet- 
erans, and  the  other  to  the  treasury.  And  thus  I  in- 
tend to  act  in  the  future.  You  ask  by  what  right? 
But  you  yourselves  say  'it  is  easier  for  a  camel 
to  pass  through  the  eye  of  a  needle,  than  for  a  rich 
man  to  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven/  So, 
you  see,  I  have  decided  to  help  you  to  fulfill  your 
difficult  and  wise  law.  As  is  known  to  all  the 
world,  you  exalt  poverty,  Galileans.  Then  why  do 
you  rail  against  me?  In  taking  away  property 
which  you  have  stolen  from  your  brothers  the  her- 
etics, or  from  Helenic  shrines,  I  only  set  you  again 
on  the  path  of  salutary  poverty,  which  leads 
straight  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 

An  unkind  smile  flickered  across  his  lips. 


356  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"We  suffer  evil  against  the  law!"  cried  the  old 
couple. 

"Very  good,  then;  endure  it,"  answered  Julian. 
"You  should  rejoice  in  persecutions  and  insults, 
as  the  Nazarene  taught  you.  What  signify  these 
temporary  sufferings — in  comparison  with  eternal 
blessedness?" 

The  old  man  was  least  of  all  prepared  for  such 
an  argument.  He  grew  bewildered,  and  could  only 
mutter  as  a  last  hope: 

"We  are  your  faithful  slaves,  Augustus!  My 
son  is  serving  as  the  assistant  of  the  strategos  in  a 
distant  fortress  on  the  Koman  frontier,  and  his  su- 
periors are  satisfied  with  his  work." 

"Also  a  Galilean?"  interrupted  Julian. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  old  man,  frightened  at  his 
own  admission. 

"Well,  it  is  well  that  you  warned  me.  The  Gali- 
leans are  the  bitter  enemies  of  the  Eoman  Augus- 
tus, and  must  not  therefore  fill  the  higher  offices 
of  the  empire,  especially  the  military  offices.  Once 
more  in  this  as  in  much  else,  I  am  more  in  har- 
mony with  your  Teacher  than  you  are  yourselves. 
Is  it  just  that  the  disciples  of  Jesus  should  dispense 
justice  according  to  the  Roman  law,  when  he  said: 
'Judge  not,  that  ye  be  not  judged?'  Or  that  Chris- 
tians should  accept  from  us  the  sword  for  the  pres- 
ervation of  the  empire,  when  your  Teacher  has 
warned  you  that  'He  that  draweth  the  sword  shall 
perish  with  the  sword?'  And  in  another  place  as 
plainly:  'Resist  not  evil.'  This  is  why,  busy  for 
the  salvation  of  Christian  souls,  we  shall  take  away 
Roman  justice,  and  the  Roman  sword  from  them; 
therefore  let  them  enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven, 


The  Shrine  of  Apollo.  357 

light,  undefended,  unarmed,  estranged  from  all 
that  is  worldly  and  vain." 

With  a  silent  inner  laugh,  which  somewhat  re- 
lieved his  hatred,  the  emperor  turned,  and  rapidly 
entered  the  temple  of  Apollo. 

The  old  people  sobbed,  stretching  out  their 
hands  to  him: 

"Caesar,  we  did  not  know.  Take  our  little  house, 
our  land,  everything  that  we  have,  only  have 
mercy  on  our  son!" 

The  philosophers  wished  to  enter  the  doors  of 
the  temple  with  the  emperor.  He  stopped  them 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand: 

"I  alone  came  to  the  festival.  I  alone  bring  an 
offering  to  the  god." 

"Come,"  he  turned  to  the  priest,  "close  the 
doors,  so  that  none  of  the  impure  may  enter." 

In  the  very  faces  of  his  philosophic  friends,  the 
doors  slammed  to. 

"The  impure!  How  do  you  like  that?"  said 
Gargilianus,  uncertain  what  to  think. 

Libanius  sniffed,  and  sulked  in  silence. 

With  a  mysterious  air,  Mauricus  led  his  compan- 
ions to  a  corner  of  the  portico,  and  whispered 
something,  pointing  to  his  forehead: 

"Do  you  understand?" 

All  were  astonished. 

"Is  it  possible?" 

He  began  to  count  on  his  fingers: 

"To  begin  with,  pale  face,  burning  eyes,  dishev- 
eled hair,  uneven  steps,  disconnected  speech.  Sec- 
ondly, extreme  irritability  and  hard-heartedness. 
Thirdly,  these  senseless  wars  with  the  Persians;  I 
swear  by  Pallas!  It  is  clear  madness!" 


358  Julian  the  Apostate. 

The  friends  drew  closer  together,  and  whis- 
pered, gossiping  delightedly. 

Sallustius  standing  apart,  watched  this  confer- 
ence with  a  bitter  smile. 

Inside  the  temple,  Julian  found  Euphorion.  The 
boy  was  gay,  and  during  the  celebration  of  the  sa- 
cred rites,  often  looked  into  the  emperor's  eyes  and 
smiled  enigmatically,  as  if  they  had  a  common 
secret. 

Lit  up  by  the  sun,  the  gigantic  statue  of  Apollo 
rose  in  the  center  of  the  temple.  The  body  was 
ivory,  the  garments  gold,  as  in  the  Zeus  of  Phidias 
at  Olympia.  The  god,  slightly  bending,  was  mak- 
ing a  libation  to  Mother  Earth,  praying  that  she 
should  restore  Daphne  to  him. 

A  light  cloud  passed  over;  shadows  shimmered 
on  the  ivory,  golden-yellow  with  age,  and  it  seemed 
to  Julian  that  the  god  bent  towards  him  with  a 
benevolent  smile,  accepting  the  last  offering  of  his 
last  worshippers,  the  decrepit  priest,  the  apostate 
emperor,  and  the  prophetess'  deaf  and  dumb  child. 

"This  is  my  reward,"  thought  Julian,  with 
childlike  pleasure,  "and  I  wish  for  no  other  glory. 
Oh  Apollo,  I  thank  thee  that  I  am  cursed  and  re- 
jected by  the  crowd,  as  thou  art;  that  I  live  alone, 
and  shall  die  alone  like  thee!  Where  the  mob 
worships,  God  is  not.  Thou  art  here  in  the  ac- 
cursed shrine.  Oh  god,  mocked  at  by  men,  thou  art 
now  more  beautiful  than  in  the  days  when  men 
bowed  before  thee!  In  the  day  appointed  for  me 
by  the  Fates,  let  me  unite  myself  with  thee,  oh 
joyful  one;  let  me  die  into  thee,  oh  Sun, — as  on 
the  altar  the  last  fire  dies  in  thy  radiance!" 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
THE  BURNING  OF  THE  SHRINE. 

Darkness  reigned  in  Daphne's  grove.  A  hot 
wind  chased  the  clouds.  Not  a  drop  of  rain  fell 
to  the  earth,  parched  with  the  heat.  The  black 
branches  of  the  laurels  trembled,  stretched  to- 
wards the  sky.  The  titanic  alleys  of  cypress  rus- 
tled, and  the  sound  was  like  the  talking  of  angry 
old  men. 

Two  figures  stole  through  the  shadows  close  to 
Apollo's  temple.  The  shorter,  who  had  green  cat' s 
eyes,  that  saw  excellently  at  night,  led  the  taller 
by  the  hand. 

"Oh,  oh,  oh,  nephew!  we'll  break  our  necks 
somewhere  in  a  chasm." 

"There  are  no  chasms  here.  What  are  you 
afraid  of?  Since  you  got  baptized,  you  have 
turned  into  a  regular  old  woman." 

"An  old  woman!  my  heart  beat  evenly  when  I 
fought  against  bears  in  the  Hyrcanian  forest  with 
my  spear.  But  here,  it  is  different.  You  and  I 
will  dangle  together  on  one  gallows,  nephew!" 

"Well,  well,  keep  quiet,  you  fool!" 

The  shorter  once  more  dragged  on  his  tall  com- 
panion, who  had  a  huge  bundle  of  straw  on  his 
shoulders,  and  a  spade. 

They  stealthily  reached  the  rear  wall  of  the  tem- 
ple. 

"Here,  with  the  spade  first,"  whispered  the 
shorter,  feeling  among  the  bushes  along  the  wall 

359 


360  Julian  the  Apostate. 

for  a  hole  left  among  the  hricks  by  the  careless- 
ness of  the  builders,  "then  break  the  wooden  board- 
ing inside  with  the  axe." 

The  blows  of  the  spade  were  muffled  by  the 
wind  among  the  trees.  Suddenly  there  was  a  cry, 
like  the  wail  of  a  sick  child. 

The  taller  of  the  two  shivered  in  all  his  limbs. 

"What  was  that?" 

"The  Evil  Power!"  exclaimed  the  shorter,  his 
green  eyes  starting  out  with  terror,  and  gripping 
his  companion's  garment.  "Oh,  oh,  do  not  desert 
me,  uncle!" 

"'Why,  it  was  only  a  screech-owl — what  cowards 
we  are!" 

The  huge  night-bird,  disturbed  by  their  com- 
ing, had  started  up  flapping  its  wings,  and  disap- 
peared in  the  distance  with  a  long  cry. 

"Let  us  leave  it,"  said  the  taller;  "all  the  same, 
it  will  not  burn." 

"How  can  it  not  biirn?  The  wood  is  rotten, 
dried  by  the  sun  and  eaten  by  worms, — touch  it, 
and  it  falls  to  pieces.  It  will  kindle  from  a  single 
spark.  Come,  come,  friend,  cut  away;  don't  go  to 
sleep." 

And  the  shorter  shook  the  taller,  impatiently. 

"Now  the  straw  in  the  hole.  Like  that — more, 
more!  Glory  to  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy 
Ghost!" 

"What  are  you  wriggling  like  an  eel  for?  Why 
are  your  teeth  rattling?"  snarled  the  taller. 

"Ha — ha — ha!  I  cannot  help  laughing!  Now 
the  angels  are  flying  through  the  sky.  But  remem- 
ber, uncle,  if  we  are  caught,  not  to  renounce  the 
faith!  We  shall  light  a  brave  fire.  Here  is  a 
spark, — set  it  going." 


The  Burning  of  the  Shrine.  361 

"Get  away  to  the  devil!"  said  the  taller,  trying 
to  push  him  aside,  ''do  not  lead  me  into  evil,  you 
cursed  little  snake.  Light  it  yourself." 

"Oh  ho,  so  you  are  going  back  on  your  word? 
you  are  mad,  brother!" 

The  little  man,  beside  himself  with  fright,  con- 
vulsively caught  at  the  giant's  red  beard. 

"I'll  inform  on  you  first!  they  will  believe  me/' 

"Well,  well,  you  little  devil,  stop  it.  Give  me 
the  tinder.  There  is  nothing  to  be  done, — we 
must  finish  with  it." 

The  sparks  began  to  fall.  The  little  man  lay 
down  on  his  stomach,  and  looked  still  more  like  a 
snake.  The  flickering  flames  ran  among  the  straw 
soaked  in  pitch,  the  smoke  rolled  up  and  the  tar 
crackled.  The  flames  flared  up,  and  their  red  light 
illumined  the  frightened  face  of  the  huge  Araga- 
rius,  and  the  sly  monkey-like  countenance  of  the 
Syrian  Strombicus.  He  looked  like  an  ugly  imp, 
clapped  his  hands,  jumped  about  and  laughed  like 
a  drunken  man  or  a  madman. 

"We  shall  destroy  it  all,— to  the  glory  of  the 
Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost.  He-he-he! 
And  the  snakes,  and  the  snakes, — how  they  run! 
A  fine  fire,  uncle,  eh?" 

In  his  passionate  laughter,  there  was  the  eternal 
savagery  of  the  crowd, — the  delight  in  destruction. 

Aragarius,  pointing  into  the  darkness,  said: 

"Do  you  hear?" 

The  grove  was  deserted  as  before.  But  in  the 
wailing  of  the  wind  and  the  murmuring  of  the 
cypresses  the  incendiaries  fancied  whispering 
voices.  Aragarius  started  to  run  at  full  speed. 

Strombicus  caught  the  end  of  his  tunic,  and 
shrieked  out: 


362  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"Uncle,  take  me  on  your  shoulder.  You  have 
long  legs!  But  if  I  come  to  grief,  I'll  blame  it  all 
on  you/' 

Aragarius  stopped  for  a  moment. 

Strombicus  sprang  up  like  a  squirrel  on  the  Sar- 
matian's  shoulder,  and  they  fled  on.  The  little 
Syrian  pressed  his  knees  into  the  other's  sides,  and 
clasped  his  arms  round  his  neck  to  keep  from  fall- 
ing. Looking  at  the  fire,  he  laughed  uncontrolla- 
bly, squealing  softly  to  himself  in  mad  delight. 

The  incendiaries  left  the  grove  and  ran  out  into 
the  open  fields,  where  the  dusty,  lean  ears  of  corn 
bent  towards  the  arid  ground.  Between  the  clouds 
on  the  horizon  shone  bands  of  moonlight.  Tho 
wind  whistled  piercingly.  Crouching  on  the 
giant's  shoulders,  little  Strombicus,  with  his  glit- 
tering green  cat's  eyes,  looked  like  an  evil  spirit, 
or  a  were-wolf  hanging  to  its  victim.  A  super- 
stitious terror  overcame  Aragarius:  it  suddenly 
seemed  to  him  that  it  was  not  Strombicus  but  the 
devil  himself,  in  the  form  of  a  huge  cat,  sitting 
on  his  shoulders,  and  scratching  his  face,  and  hiss- 
ing, and  squealing,  and  laughing,  and  driving  him 
into  the  abyss.  The  giant  began  to  make  desper- 
ate leaps,  trying  to  rid  himself  of  his  burden.  His 
hair  stood  on  end,  and  he  forgot  where  he  was,  in 
his  fright.  A  great  double  shadow  of  black  against 
the  pale  bands  of  the  horizon,  they  fled  across  the 
dead  fields  with  their  dusty  corn-ears  bending  to- 
wards the  burnt  and  stony  ground. 

At  that  time,  in  the  sleeping-chamber  of  Ju- 
lian's palace  in  Antioch,  the  emperor  was  engaged 
in  a  secret  conference  with  Sallustius  Secundus, 
the  prefect  of  the  East. 


The  Burning  of  the  Shrine.  363 

"Most  gracious  Caesar,  where  are  we  to  find  corn 
for  such  an  army?" 

"I  have  sent  triremes  to  Sicily,  to  Egypt,  to 
Apulia, — wherever  there  is  a  harvest,"  replied  the 
emperor.  "I  tell  you,  there  will  be  corn." 

"And  money?"  continued  Sallustius.  "Would 
it  not  be  wiser  to  put  it  off  till  next  year, — to 
wait?" 

Julian  all  the  time  walked  up  and  down  the 
room,  with  great  strides;  suddenly  he  stopped  be- 
fore the  old  man. 

"Wait?"  he  exclaimed  angrily,  "you  seem  to 
have  agreed  among  you  all  to  repeat  the  same 
thing.  To  wait?  As  if  I  can  wait  now  and  weigh 
the  matter,  and  continue  undecided!  Will  the 
Galileans  wait?  Understand  old  man,  I  must  ac- 
complish the  impossible,  I  must  return  from  Per- 
sia terrible  and  mighty,  or  not  return  at  all.  There 
can  be  no  more  truce.  There  is  no  middle  path. 
What  do  you  say  about  wisdom?  About  being 
reasonable?  Or  do  you  think  that  Alexander  of 
Macedon  conquered  the  world  by  being — reason- 
able? Would  not  that  beardless  youth  who  set 
forth  with  a  handful  of  Macedonians  against  the 
rulers  of  Asia,  have  seemed  mad  to  such  moderate 
folk  as  you?  And  who  gave  him  the  victory?" 

"I  know  not,"  answered  the  prefect,  conciliat- 
ingly,  with  a  slight  mockery,  "it  seems  to  me  that 
the  hero  himself." 

"Not  he  himself,"  exclaimed  Julian,  "but  the 
gods!  You  hear,  Sallustius?  The  Olympian  gods 
can  give  me  victory  also,  a  victory  greater  than 
Alexander's,  if  they  wish.  I  began  in  Gaul,  I  shall 
end  in  India.  I  shall  pass  through  the  whole 
earth,  from  the  sunset  to  the  sunrise,  like  the  great 


364  Julian  the  Apostate. 

Macedonian,  like  the  god  Dionysus.  Let  us  see 
what  the  Galileans  will  do  then,  how  they  who 
now  mock  at  the  simple  dress  of  a  sage  will  laugh 
at  the  sword  of  the  Roman  Emperor,  when  he  re- 
turns victorious  over  Asia!" 

His  eyes  burned  with  a  delirious  brilliance.  Sal- 
lustius  wished  to  say  something,  but  stopped. 
When  Julian  began  once  more  to  pace  through 
the  room  with  great  uneven  strides,  the  prefect 
shook  his  head  and  pity  shone  in  the  eyes  of  the 
old  Roman. 

'"The  army  must  be  ready  to  march,"  continued 
Julian, — "I  will  it  so,  do  you  hear?  No  dissua- 
sions, no  delays!  We  have  thirty  thousand  men. 
The  Armenian  king,  Arzacius  has  promised  his  as- 
sistance. We  have  corn.  What  more  do  we  need? 
I  must  know  that  I  can  start  against  the  Persians 
at  any  moment.  On  this  depends  not  only  my 
honor  and  the  safety  of  the  Roman  Empire,  but 
also  the  victory  of  the  everlasting  gods  over  the 
Galileans." 

The  wide  window  was  open.  The  hot  dusty 
wind,  blowing  into  the  window  made  the  long 
flames  flicker  in  the  three-wicked  lamp.  Cutting 
through  the  darkness  of  the  heavens,  a  falling  star 
flashed  forth,  and  disappeared.  Julian  shuddered. 
The  omen  was  evil. 

There  was  a  knocking  at  the  door.  Voices  were 
heard. 

"Who  is  it?  enter!"  said  the  emperor. 

It  was  the  group  of  philosophers.  Libanius  led 
them.  He  seemed  more  bombastic  and  inflated 
than  usual. 

"What  do  you  want?"  said  Julian  coldly. 


The  Burning  of  the  Shrine.  365 

Libanius  knelt  down,  preserving  his  haughty 
look. 

"Let  me  depart,  Augustus.  I  cannot  live  longer 
at  court.  My  endurance  is  exhausted.  Every  day 
1  suffer  unheard-of  insults." 

He  spoke  long  of  certain  presents,  of  money  re- 
wards promised  to  him,  of  ingratitude,  of  his  ser- 
vices, of  the  splendid  panegyrics  in  which  he  had 
celebrated  the  emperor's  praises. 

But  Julian  no  longer  listening  to  him,  looked 
with  repulsion  and  weariness  at  the  famous  ora- 
tor, and  thought:  "Can  this  be  the  same  Libanius 
whose  speeches  I  esteemed  so  highly  in  my  youth  ? 
"What  little-mincledness!  What  vanity!" 

Afterwards  all  the  philosophers  began  to  speak 
at  once.  They  quarreled,  shouted,  accusing  each 
other  of  atheism,  of  extortion,  of  immorality,  and 
repeating  the  most  foolish  gossip.  It  was  a  shame- 
ful domestic  war,  not  of  sages,  but  of  parasites, 
maddened  with  their  own  fatness,  ready  to  tear 
each  other  in  pieces  from  vanity,  malice  and  weari- 
ness. 

Finally,  the  emperor  uttered  a  single  word,  in  a 
low  voice,  which  compelled  them  all  to  remember 
themselves: 

"Teachers!" 

All  became  silent  instantly,  like  a  frightened 
flock  of  chattering  jackdaws. 

"Teachers,"  he  repeated,  with  a  bitter  smile,  "I 
have  heard  you  long  enough.  Allow  me  to  relate 
a  fable  to  you.  An  Egyptian  king  once  had  some 
tame  monkeys,  taught  to  perform  the  Pyrrhic  war- 
dance  on  the  stage.  They  were  dressed  in  helmets 
and  masks,  and  their  tails  were  hid  under  the  im- 
perial purple,  and  when  they  danced,  it  was  hard 


366  Julian  the  Apostate. 

to  believe  that  they  were  not  human  beings.  For 
a  long  time  the  sight  gave  him  great  pleasure.  But 
once  upon  a  time  one  of  the  spectators  threw  a 
handful  of  nuts  upon  the  stage.  And  what  hap- 
pened? The  actors  tore  off  the  purple  and  the 
masks,  laid  bare  their  tails,  went  down  on  all 
fours,  and  began  to  scratch  each  other  for  the  nuts, 
squealing  the  while.  Thus  certain  people  majes- 
tically perform  the  Pyrrhic  dance  of  wisdom,  till 
the  first  present  comes.  But  it  is  only  necessary 
to  throw  the  handful  of  nuts,  and  the  wise  men 
turn  into  monkeys:  they  lay  bare  their  tails,  squeal, 
and  scratch.  How  does  this  fable  please  you, 
Teachers?" 

Suddenly  Sallustius  softly  took  the  emperor  by 
the  arm,  and  pointed  through  the  open  window. 

Against  the  black  lining  of  cloud,  a  scarlet 
gleam  was  slowly  spreading,  rocked  by  the  strong 
wind. 

"A  fire!  a  fire!"  cried  all,  at  once. 

"Across  the  river,"  suggested  some. 

"Not  across  the  river,  but  in  the  suburb  of  Har- 
andama,"  corrected  others. 

"No,  no,  in  Hezira,  among  the  Jews!" 

"Neither  in  Hezira,  nor  in  Harandama,"  ex- 
claimed some  one,  with  that  irresistible  gladness 
which  takes  hold  of  a  crowd  at  sight  of  a  fire,  "but 
in  the  grove  of  Daphne!" 

"The  temple  of  Apollo,"  muttered  the  emperor, 
and  suddenly  all  the  blood  rushed  to  his  heart. 

"The  Galileans!"  he  cried,  in  a  terrible,  wild 
voice,  and  ran  to  the  door,  and  then  down  the  stair. 

Slaves!  quick!  a  horse,  and  fifty  legionaries! 

After  a  few  moments,  all  was  ready.  They  led 
a  black  stallion  into  the  court-yard,  trembling  in 


The  Burning  of  the  Shrine.  367 

every  limb,  dangerous  and  angrily  turning  back 
his  bloodshot  eyes. 

Julian  sped  through  the  streets  of  Antioch,  with 
fifty  legionaries  behind  him.  The  crowd  scattered 
in  terror  before  them.  They  knocked  down  some 
and  crushed  others.  Their  cries  were  drowned  by 
the  thunder  of  hoofs  and  the  rattle  of  armor. 

They  passed  out  through  the  city.  Their  gal- 
lop lasted  more  than  two  hours.  Three  legionaries 
were  left  behind.  Their  horses  had  given  out. 

The  scarlet  grew  ever  clearer.  There  was  a  smell 
of  smoke.  The  fields  with  their  dusty  corn-ears, 
reflected  the  blood-red  glow.  Curious  people  were 
hurrying  from  all  sides  like  moths  to  a  flame.  They 
were  inhabitants  of  the  neighboring  villages  and 
the  outlying  parts  of  Antioch.  Julian  noticed 
gladness  in  their  faces  and  voices,  as  if  they  had 
come  to  a  festival,  or  to  some  holiday  spectacle. 

The  tongues  of  flame  flashed  at  last  among  the 
clouds  of  thick  smoke  over  the  black  summits  of 
Daphne's  grove. 

The  emperor  entered  the  sacred  enclosure.  Here 
a  noisy  crowd  was  gathered.  Many  were  cracking 
jokes  at  each  other,  and  laughing.  The  quiet  al- 
leys, so  long  deserted  by  all,  swarmed  with  people. 
The  mob  polluted  the  grove,  broke  branches  of  the 
ancient  laurels,  fouled  the  springs,  and  crushed  the 
soft  dreamy  flowers.  The  narcissus  and  lilies, 
dying,  vainly  struggled  with  their  last  freshness 
against  the  smothering  heat  of  the  fire  and  the 
breath  of  the  mob. 

"God's  miracle!  God's  miracle!"  a  delighted 
hum  of  voices  rose  above  the  crowd. 

"I  saw  myself  how  lightning  fell  from  heaven, 
and  set  the  roof  on  fire." 


368  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"It  was  not  lightning.  You  lie.  The  earth 
opened,  and  shot  up  a  flame  inside  the  shrine,  just 
under  the  idol." 

"And  no  wonder.  What  a  crime  they  had  com- 
mitted!—  disturbed  the  relics!  They  thought 
they  would  get  off.  How  could  it  be  otherwise? 
And  there  is  your  temple  of  Apollo  for  you,  and 
your  Castaliau  springs!  That's  how  it  happens!" 

Among  the  crowd,  Julian  saw  a  woman  half- 
dressed,  disheveled,  who  had  probably  just  come 
from  her  bed;  she  was  also  watching  the  fire  with 
delight,  with  a  beatific  and  meaningless  smile,  and 
was  hugging  an  infant  to  her  breasts.  Tears 
gleamed  on  his  lashes.  He  had  been  crying,  but 
stopped,  and  hungrily  began  to  suck  the  dusky  fat 
breast,  smacking  his  lips,  pressing  one  hand 
against  it,  and  stretching  forth  the  other,  plump 
and  dimpled,  towards  the  fire,  as  if  he  was  trying 
to  reach  a  bright,  pretty  plaything. 

The  emperor  stopped  his  horse.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  go  a  step  further.  The  heat  blew  in  his 
face,  like  a  furnace.  The  legionaries  awaited  his 
orders.  He  understood  that  the  temple  was  lost. 

It  was  a  splendid  sight.  The  building  blazed 
from  head  to  foot.  The  inner  boarding,  the  rot- 
ten walls,  the  dried-up  beams,  piles,  joists,  trusses, 
— were  all  turned  into  blazing  brands.  They  fell 
crashing,  and  fiery  wreaths  of  sparks  flew  up  to  the 
sky,  which  seemed  to  lower  ominous  and  blood- 
red.  The  flames  licked  the  clouds  with  their  long 
tongues,  flickering  and  swaying  in  the  wind  like 
the  folds  of  a  curtain. 

The  leaves  of  the  laurels  crackled  in  the  flames, 
and  curled  up  as  if  in  pain.  The  tops  of  the  cy- 
presses blazed  with  a  bright  resinous  light,  like 


The  Burning  of  the  Shrine.  3CO 

gigantic  black  torches.  Their  white  smoke  seem- 
ed the  smoke  of  offerings.  The  drops  of  resin  fell 
thick,  as  if  the  world-old  trees,  coeval  with  the 
temple,  were  shedding  tears  of  gold  for  the  god. 

Julian  watched  the  fire  with  a  fixed,  uncompre- 
hending gaze.  He  wished  to  give  on  order  to  the 
legionaries,  but  only  drew  his  sword  from  its  scab- 
bard, reined  his  horse  up  on  its  haunches,  and 
clenching  his  teeth,  muttered  with  impotent 
wrath: 

"Oh  abominable  creatures!" 

The  cry  of  the  crowd  was  heard  further  off.  He 
remembered  that  the  treasury  was  behind  the  tem- 
ple, with  the  vessels  for  the  service  of  the  god,  and 
he  was  afraid  the  Galileans  would  plunder  the 
shrine.  He  gave  the  signal,  and  hurried  with  his 
soldiers  to  the  side  where  the  treasury  was.  A  sad 
procession  stopped  him  on  the  way. 

A  number  of  Roman  guards  who  had  just  had 
time  to  come  from  the  neighboring  village  of 
Daphne,  were  carrying  a  litter. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Julian. 

"The  Galileans  have  stoned  the  priest  Gorgias," 
answered  the  Romans. 

"And  the  treasury?" 

"It  is  untouched.  Standing  on  the  threshold, 
the  priest  slammed  the  door,  and  would  not  let  the 
sanctuary  be  polluted.  He  did  not  desert  his  post 
until  he  fell,  struck  on  the  head  with  a  stone.  Then 
they  killed  the  boy.  The  Galilean  mob,  trampling 
them  down,  would  have  broken  in  the  door,  but 
we  arrived  and  dispersed  the  crowd." 

"Is  he  alive?"  asked  Julian. 

"Just  breathing." 

The  emperor  sprang  from  his  horse.     They 


370  Julian  the  Apostate. 

gently  lowered  the  litter.  He  approached,  bent 
down,  and  carefully  lifted  the  old  stained  cloak 
that  covered  both  bodies. 

The  old  man  lay  on  a  cushion  of  fresh  laurel 
boughs.  His  eyes  were  closed.  His  breast  rose 
and  fell  slowly.  Pity  filled  Julian's  heart,  when 
he  saw  the  old  drunkard's  red  nose,  which  had  so 
recently  seemed  so  indecent  to  him,  and  when  he 
remembered  the  lean  goose  in  the  wicker  basket, 
the  last  sacrifice  to  Apollo.  Drops  of  blood 
trickled  over  the  soft  wooly  hair,  white  as  snow, 
and  the  sharp,  black  laurel-leaves  curved  round 
the  priest's  head  in  a  sacred  wreath. 

Beside  him  in  the  same  litter,  lay  the  little  body 
of  Euphorion.  His  face,  over  which  had  spread 
the  paleness  of  death,  was  even  lovelier  than  be- 
fore. Eed  drops  gleamed  on  his  tangled  golden 
curls.  Eesting  his  hand  against  his  cheek,  he 
seemed  to  be  sleeping  a  gentle  sleep.  Julian 
thought: 

"Thus  must  Eros  be,  the  50,0.  of  the  Goddess  of 
Love,  stoned  by  the  Galileans." 

And  the  Roman  Emperor  knelt  down  reverently 
before  the  martyr  of  the  Olympian  gods.  In  spite 
of  the  ruin  of  the  temple,  in  spite  of  the  senseless 
mockery  of  the  mob,  Julian  felt  in  that  death  the 
presence  of  God.  His  heart  softened,  even 
his  hatred  vanished,  and  with  tears  of  tenderness 
he  kissed  the  old  man's  hand. 

The  dying  man  opened  his  eyes. 

"Where  is  my  boy?"  he  asked,  softly. 

"Here,  beside  you." 

"Alive?"  asked  Gorgias,  stroking  the  child's 
hair,  with  a  last  caress. 

He  was  so  weak  that  he  could  not  turn  his  head 


The  Burning  of  the  Shrine.  371 

round  to  him.  Julian  had  not  the  heart  to  reveal 
the  truth  to  him.  The  priest  turned  to  the  em- 
peror a  look  full  of  entreaty: 

"Caesar,  I  intrust  him  to  you — do  not  desert 
him.  " 

"Best  assured  that  I  shall  do  all  that  I  can  for 
your  boy." 

Thus  Julian  took  upon  himself  the  responsibil- 
ity for  him  to  whom  not  even  the  Koman  Caesar 
could  do  either  good  or  ill,  upon  this  earth. 

Gorgias  did  not  withdraw  his  stiffening  hand 
from  Euphorion's  curls.  Suddenly  his  face  lighted 
up;  he  wished  to  say  something,  but  murmured 
only  disconnected  words: 

"It  is  they — it  is  they — I  knew  it — rejoice." 

He  looked  before  him,  with  wide-open  eyes, 
sighed,  stopping  in  the  middle  of  a  breath,  and  his 
glance  faded  out. 

Julian  closed  the  dead  man's  eyes. 
t  Suddenly  the  triumphant  sounds  of  church  sing- 
ing broke  forth.  The  emperor  looked  up,  and  saw 
that  along  the  chief  cypress  alley  was  moving  a 
procession,  an  endless  crowd  of  priests  and  elders, 
in  gold-embroidered  stoles  studded  with  precious 
stones,  high  deacons  with  swaying  censers,  black 
monks  with  tall  tapers,  youths  and  maidens  in 
white  garments,  with  palm-branches  in  their 
hands.  And  high  up  above  the  crowd,  on  a  trium- 
phal car,  gleamed  the  shrine  of  Saint  Babylas. 
The  flames  of  the  burning  temple  flickered  along 
its  pale  silver.  The  relics,  driven  forth  by  the 
emperor's  command,  from  Daphne's  grove  were 
on  their  way  to  Antioch.  The  departure  of  the 
relics  had  been  turned  into  a  triumphal  procession. 


372  Julian  the  Apostate. 

The  people  were  singing  a  psalm  of  David,  in 
praise  of  the  God  of  Israel: 

"Clouds  and  darkness  are  round  about  Him;" 
their  voices  rose,  drowning  the  wail  of  the  wind, 
and  the  nickering  of  the  flames;  and  the  triumphal 
song  of  the  Galileans  soared  to  the  sky,  lit  up  with 
red,— 

"'Clouds  and  darkness  are  round  about  Him. 

"A  fire  goeth  before  Him,  and  burneth  up  His 
enemies  round  about  Him. 

"The  hills  melted  like  wax  at  the  presence  of  the 
Lord,  at  the  presence  of  the  Lord  of  the  whole 
earth." 

And  Julian  grew  pale,  on  hearing  the  insolent 
triumph  of  the  last  verse: 

'•'Confounded  be  all  they  that  serve  graven  im- 
ages, that  boast  themselves  of  idols:  worship  Him 
all  ye  gods!" 

Then  the  emperor  leaped  on  his  horse,  drew  his 
.sword  and  cried: 

"Soldiers!  follow  me!" 

He  wished  to  throw  himself  into  the  midst  of 
the  crowd,  to  disperse  the  triumphant  mob,  to 
overthrow  the  shrine  with  the  relics  and  scatter 
the  accursed  bones. 

But  some  one's  hand  caught  the  emperor's  horse 
by  the  rein. 

"Out  of  the  way!" — he  cried,  angrily,  and  had 
already  raised  his  sword  to  strike.  But  at  the  same 
moment  his  hand  fell  again.  Before  him  was  a 
wise  old  man,  with  a  sad  and  quiet  face,  Sallustius 
Secundus,  who  had  just  come  from  Antioch. 

"Cresar!  do  not  fall  upon  unarmed  men.  Re- 
member yourself." 

Julian  replaced  his  sword  in  the  scabbard. 


The  Burning  of  the  Shrine.  373 

The  bronze  helmet  galled  and  burned  his  brow> 
as  if  it  had  been  red-hot.  Tearing  it  .off  and 
throwing  it  on  the  ground,  he  wiped  the  great 
drops  of  sweat  from  his  forehead.  Then  alone, 
without  soldiers  and  bareheaded,  he  approached 
the  crowd  and  stopped  the  procession  with  a  mo- 
tion of  his  hand. 

All  recognized  him.    The  singing  stopped. 

"Men  of  Antioch!"  pronounced  Julian,  almost 
calmly,  restraining  himself  by  a  terrible  effort  of 
will,  "know  that  the  rebels  and  incendiaries  of 
Apollo's  temple  will  be  punished  without  pity. 
You  laugh  at  my  mercy;  let  us  see  whether  you 
will  laugh  at  iny  wrath.  The  Roman  Augustus 
might  wipe  your  whole  city  off  the  earth,  so  that 
men  might  lose  the  memory  of  great  Antioch.  But 
I  shall  only  leave  you.  I  start  on  an  expedition 
against  the  Persians.  If  the  gods  have  decreed 
that  I  shall  return  victorious,  then  woe  to  you, 
rebels!  Woe  to  thee,  Nazarene,  Carpenter's  son!" 

He  shook  his  sword  above  the  crowd. 

Suddenly  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  strange,  inhu- 
man voice  spoke  clearly  behind  him: 

"The  Nazarene,  the  Carpenter's  son,  is  prepar- 
ing a  coffin  for  thee!" 

Julian  shuddered  and  turned,  but  saw  no  one. 
He  raised  his  hand  to  his  eyes. 

"What  is  it?  or  did  it  only  seem  so  to  my 
fancy?"  he  said,  almost  inaudibly  and  vaguely. 

At  the  same  moment,  within  the  blazing  temple 
a  deafening  noise  was  heard;  part  of  the  wooden 
roof  fell  directly  upon  the  gigantic  statue  of 
Apollo.  The  image  tumbled  from  its  pedestal. 
The  golden  goblet,  with  which  Apollo  was  making 
his  everlasting  libation  to  the  All-mother  Earth r 


374  Julian  the  Apostate. 

rang  piteously.  Sparks  flew  up  to  the  clouds  in  a 
golden  sheaf.  A  graceful  column  in  the  portico 
staggered,  and  the  Corinthian  capitol,  with  a  soft 
charm  even  in  its  destruction,  fell  like  a  white  lily 
from  its  broken  stem,  and  lay  prostrate  on  the 
earth.  It  seemed  to  Julian  that  the  whole  temple, 
falling  in  ruins,  would  overwhelm  him. 

And  the  psalm  of  David  in  praise  of  the  Lord 
God  of  Israel,  rose  in  triumph  to  the  midnight  sky, 
drowning  the  roar  of  the  flames  and  noise  of  the 
falling  idol: 

"Confounded  be  all  they  that  serve  graven  im- 
ages, that  boast  themselves  of  idols:  worship  Him, 
all  ye  gods!" 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  TEMPLE. 

Julian  passed  the  winter  in  hastening  on  the 
preparations  for  the  Persian  campaign.  At  the 
beginning  of  spring,  on  the  fifth  of  March,  he  left 
Antioch  with  an  army  of  sixty-five  thousand  men. 

The  snow  was  melting  on  the  mountains.  In  the 
fruit  gardens,  the  young  peach  trees  naked  and 
leafless,  were  already  covered  with  pink  flowers. 
The  soldiers  went  forth  to  war  joyfully,  as  to  a 
festival. 

A  fleet  of  twelve  hundred  vessels  had  been  built 
at  the  wharfs  of  Samosata,  of  huge  cedars,  pines 
and  oaks  hewn  in  the  ravines  of  Mount  Taurus, 
and  sent  down  the  Euphrates  to  Callinice. 

Julian  passed  through  Hierapolis  to  Carrhae  by 


The  Building  of  the  Temple.          375 

forced  marches,  then  further  to  the  south,  along 
the  bank  of  the  Euphrates,  to  the  Persian  frontier. 
Another  army  of  thirty  thousand  was  sent  to  the 
north  under  the  leadership  of  Procopius  and  Se- 
bastian. They  were  to  unite  with  the  Armenian 
king  Argaces,  and  lay  waste  Adiabene  and  Chilio- 
cus,  and  passing  through  Corduene,  to  meet  the 
main  army  on  the  banks  of  the  Tigris  under  the 
walls  of  Ctesiphon. 

The  emperor  had  superintended  everything 
down  to  the  smallest  details,  and  everything  had 
been  weighed  and  meditated  on  with  love.  Those 
who  understood  his  plans  were  justified  in  their 
enthusiasm  for  its  wisdom,  largeness,  and  simplic- 
ity. 

At  the  very  beginning  of  April,  the  army  arrived 
at  Circesium,  the  last  Roman  possession,  strongly 
fortified  by  Diocletian,  on  the  frontier  of  Mesopo- 
tamia, where  the  river  Abora  flows  into  the  Eu- 
phrates. A  floating  bridge  of  boats  was  con- 
structed. Julian  gave  the  order  to  cross  the  fron- 
tier on  the  following  morning. 

Late  in  the  evening,  when  all  was  prepared,  he 
returned  to  his  tent  weary  but  elated,  lit  his  lamp, 
and  wished  to  take  up  the  favorite  work,  which 
daily  took  up  a  part  of  his  leisure.  It  was  an  ex- 
tensive philosophical  dissertation  "Against  the 
Christians."  He  wrote  it  in  fragments,  to  the 
sound  of  war  trumpets,  camp  songs,  and  the  cries 
of  the  sentinels.  He  found  joy  in  the  thought  that 
he  was  fighting  against  the  Galileans,  by  all  possi- 
ble means, — on  the  field  of  battle,  and  in  his  book, 
with  the  Roman  sword,  and  the  wisdom  of  Hellas. 
The  emperor  never  parted  with  the  works  of  the 
Fathers  of  the  Church,  the  Canons,  and  the  de- 


376  Julian  the  Apostate. 

crees  of  the  Councils.  On  the  leaves  of  a  very  an- 
cient and  worn  roll  of  the  New  Testament,  which 
he  studied  with  not  less  zeal  than  Plato  and 
Homer,  sarcastic  remarks  were  written  by  his  own 
hand. 

Julian  stripped  off  his  dusty  armor,  washed,  sat 
•down  at  his  camp  table,  and  dipped  a  sharp  pointed 
reed  in  his  ink-horn,  getting  ready  to  write.  But 
his  solitude  was  disturbed.  Two  messengers  had 
reached  the  camp,  one  from  Italy,  the  other  from 
Jerusalem.  Julian  heard  them  both. 

The  news  was  not  elating.  Earthquakes  had 
just  destroyed  Nicomedia,  a  splendid  city  in  Asia 
Minor.  Subterranean  shocks  had  caused  a  panic 
among  the  inhabitants  of  Constantinople.  The 
Sibylline  books  forbade  the  crossing  of  the  Roman 
frontier  for  a  year. 

The  messenger  from  Jerusalem  brought  a  letter 
from  Alypius  of  Antioch,  the  official  to  whom  Ju- 
lian had  entrusted  the  rebuilding  of  Solomon's 
temple.  By  a  strange  contradiction,  the  worship- 
per of  Olympus  with  its  many  gods  had  deter- 
mined to  restore  the  temple  of  the  one  God  of 
Israel,  destroyed  by  the  Romans,  in  order  to  con- 
fute, before  the  eyes  of  all  peoples  and  all  ages, 
the  words  of  the  Gospel  prophecy:  "There  shall 
not  be  left  here  one  stone  upon  another,  that  shall 
not  be  thrown  down."  The  Jews  enthusiastically 
welcomed  Julian's  design.  Offerings  came  in  from 
all  sides.  The  plan  of  construction  was  grandiose. 
The  work  was  taken  up  with  alacrity.  The  gen- 
eral superintendence  of  the  work  Julian  entrusted 
to  his  friend  Alypius  of  Antioch,  a  noble  and  culti- 
vated man  who  had  been  governor  of  Britain. 

"What  has  happened?"  asked  Julian  uneasily, 


The  Building  of  the  Temple.          377 

looking  under  his  brows  at  the  messenger's  gloomy 
face,  and  breaking  the  seal  of  the  letter. 

"A  great  misfortune,  most  noble  Augustus!" 

"Speak.    Fear  not!" 

"While  the  builders  were  clearing  away  the  rub- 
bish," began  the  messenger,  "and  removing  the 
ruins  of  the  ancient  walls,  all  went  well.  But  as 
soon  as  they  proceeded  to  the  foundations  of  the 
new  building,  a  flame  burst  forth  from  the  exca- 
vations in  the  form  of  globes  of  lire,  and  scattered 
the  stones  and  burned  up  the  workmen.  On  the 
next  day,  by  order  of  the  most  noble  Alypius,  they 
returned  to  the  work.  The  miracle  was  repeated. 
And  the  same  thing  a  third  time.  And  now  the 
Christians  are  triumphant,  the  Hellenes  are  in 
terror,  and  not  a  single  workman  will  consent  to 
enter  the  excavations.  Not  one  stone  of  the  build- 
ing is  left  upon  another.  All  is  thrown  down." 

"Be  silent,  villain!  You  must  be  a  Galilean 
yourself,"  cried  the  emperor  wrathfully,  raising 
his  hand  to  strike  the  kneeling  messenger,  "it  is  a 
lie!  a  lie!!  Old  wives'  tales!  Is  it  possible  that 
Alypius  could  not  have  chosen  a  more  intelligent 
messenger?" 

He  hastily  broke  the  seal,  unfolded  the  letter, 
and  read  it.  The  messenger  had  spoken  the  truth. 
Alypius  confirmed  his  words.  Julian  could  not 
believe  his  own  eyes,  and  re-read  it  carefully,  hold- 
ing the  letter  close  to  the  lamp:  a  red  flush  of 
anger  and  shame  covered  his  face,  and  finally  bi- 
ting his  lips  till  they  bled,  he  crumpled  the  papy- 
rus, and  threw  it  to  the  physician  Oribasius,  who 
was  standing  beside  him: 

"Read, — you  do  not  believe  in  miracles.  Either 
Alypius  is  mad,  or — no,  no, — that  cannot  be!" 


378  Julian  the  Apostate. 

The  young  Alexandrian  scientist  took  up  the 
letter  and  read  it,  with  the  calm  and  impassive 
slowness  with  which  he  did  everything.  Then  he 
turned  his  wise,  bright  eyes  to  Julian. 

"I  see  no  miracle  here,"  said  the  physician, 
"men  of  science  have  long  ago  described  this  phe- 
nomenon. In  the  vaults  of  old  buildings,  which 
have  been  closed  and  deprived  of  the  access  of  air 
for  many  centuries,  heavy,  easily  inflammable 
fumes  sometimes  collect.  It  is  enough  to  enter 
these  vaults  with  a  lighted  torch,  to  cause  an  ex- 
plosion. The  sudden  outbursts  of  fire  may  kill 
the  careless.  And  ignorant  people  take  it  to  be  a 
miracle.  But  here,  as  everywhere,  the  light  of 
science  disperses  the  darkness  of  superstition,  and 
gives  the  wise  man  freedom.  Everything  is  beau- 
tiful, because  everything  is  natural  and  conforms 
to  the  will  of  Nature." 

He  laid  the  letter  quietly  on  the  table,  with  a 
self-confident  and  pedantic  smile  on  his  thin,  ob- 
stinate lips. 

<fYes,  yes,  certainly,"  replied  Julian,  with  bitter 
irony,  "we  must  find  some  way  of  consoling  our- 
selves! Everything  can  be  explained;  everything 
is  natural:  the  earthquake  in  Nicomedia,  and  the 
earthquake  in  Constantinople,  and  the  prophecy 
of  the  Sibylline  books,  and  the  drought  in  An- 
tioch,  and  the  fire  in  Eome,  and  the  flood  in 
Egypt.  Everything  is  natural,  only  it  is  strange 
that  everything  is  against  me, — earth  and  heaven, 
water  and  fire,  and,  it  would  seem,  the  very  gods 
themselves!" 

Sallustius  Secundus  entered  the  tent. 

"Great  Augustus!  The  Tuscan  soothsayers 
whom  you  ordered  to  inquire  concerning  the  will 


The  Building  of  the  Temple.          3T;J" 

of  the  gods,  pray  you  to  delay  and  not  to  cross 
the  frontier  to-morrow.  The  prophetic  chickens 
of  the  Haruspices,  in  spite  of  every  prayer,  refuse 
food  and  sit  crouching  together,  and  will  not  pick 
the  grains  of  barley, — it  is  an  evil  augury!" 

At  first  Julian  knit  his  brows  in  anger,  but  sud- 
denly his  eyes  lit  up,  and  he  burst  into  laughter  so 
unexpectedly  that  all  looked  at  him  in  astonish- 
ment and  silence. 

"Is  it  so,  Sallustius?  They  will  not  eat?  Well? 
What  are  we  to  do  with  these  obstinate  birds? 
Had  we  not  better  obey  them,  and  return  to  An- 
tioch,  to  the  joy  and  derision  of  the  Galileans? 
Do  you  know,  my  dear  friend,  what  must  be  done? 
Go  at  once  to  the  Tuscan  fortune-tellers,  and  de- 
clare to  them  the  emperor's  will.  Let  the  priests 
take  all  their  silly  fowls,  and  throw  them  into  the 
river.  That  is  the  right  place  for  them.  Do  you 
hear?  The  fat,  spoilt  creatures  will  not  eat;  let 
us  see  whether  they  will  drink  fresh  river-water. 
Go,  fulfil  my  will!" 

"You  are  jesting,  gracious  Caesar!  Have  I  un- 
derstood you  aright?  Is  it  possible  that  you  are 
still  determined  to  cross  the  frontier  to-morrow 
morning?" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  swear  by  my  future  victories,  I 
swear  by  the  might  of  the  Eoman  Empire  that  no 
consecrated  chickens  can  terrify  me,  nor  waters, 
nor  fire,  nor  earth,  nor  heaven,  nor  even  the  gods 
themselves.  It  is  too  late!  The  die  is  cast. 
Friends,  is  there  anything  more  godlike  in  all  na- 
ture than  a  man's  will?  In  all  the  Sibylline  books; 
is  there  anything  stronger  than  these  words:  I  will 
it  so!  More  than  ever  before,  I  feel  the  secret  of 
my  life.  Before,  signs  entangled  me  like  nets,  and 


380  Julian  the  Apostate. 

intimidated  me.  Now  I  believe  in  them,  and 
laugh  at  them.  Perhaps  this  is  sacrilege!  Be  it 
so!  I  have  nothing  more  to  lose.  If  the  gods  de- 
sert me,  I  renounce  the  gods." 

When  those  about  him  had  departed,  Julian 
went  to  a  little  silver  image  of  Mercury,  by  a  port- 
able altar,  intending,  as  was  his  habit,  to  perform 
the  evening  prayer,  and  to  throw  a  few  grains  of 
incense  into  the  flame,  but  he  suddenly  turned,  and 
went  away,  with  a  smile,  and  threw  himself  down 
on  the  lion's  skin  which  served  as  his  couch,  and 
extinguishing  his  lamp,  fell  into  a  deep,  careless 
sleep,  such  as  sometimes  overtakes  people  after 
great  misfortunes. 

Dawn  had  hardly  broken  when  he  awoke,  still 
fuller  of  gladness.  The  trumpets  were  sounding. 

Julian  leaped  on  his  horse  and  rode  down  the 
bank  of  the  Abora. 

The  early  April  morning  was  fresh  and  almost 
perfectly  still.  A  dreamy  breeze  brought  the  cool- 
ness of  the  night  from  the  great  Asian  -river.  All 
along  the  wide  spring  flood  of  the  Euphrates,  from 
the  tower  of  Circesium  to  the  Eoman  camp,  for 
ten  stadia  stretched  the  fleet.  Such  martial  pomp 
had  not  been  seen  since  the  days  of  Xerxes. 

The  first  rays  of  the  sun  flashed  up  from  behind 
the  pyramidal  mausoleum  of  Gordianus,  the  con- 
queror of  the  Persians,  who  had  been  put  to  death 
there,  by  Philip  of  Arabis.  The  edge  of  the  red 
disk  gleamed  above  the  quiet  horizon  of  the  des- 
ert like  a  hot  coal,  and  in  a  moment  all  the  tops 
of  the  sails  and  masts  grew  rosy  through  the 
morning  gloom. 

The  emperor  gave  a  sign,  and  eight  huge  com- 
panies of  five  thousand  men  advanced  with  meas- 


The  Building  of  the  Temple.          381 

ured  tread,  that  made  the  earth  quake  and  trem- 
ble. The  Koman  army  began  to  cross  the  bridge, 
and  the  frontier  of  Persia. 

Julian  rode  across  to  the  opposite  bank,  to  a 
high,  sandy  hillock  in  the  territory  of  the  enemy. 

At  the  *head  of  one  of  the  Palatine  cohorts, 
marched  Anatolius,  Arsinoe's  admirer,  the  centu- 
rion of  the  shield-bearers. 

Anatolius  looked  at  the  emperor.  In  Julian's 
outward  appearance,  a  great  change  had  taken 
place. 

The  month  spent  in  the  open  air  in  camp  work, 
had  done  him  good.  In  the  manly  warrior  with 
wind-tanned  and  sun-burned  cheeks,  with  a  light 
of  youth  in  his  eyes  that  shone  exultantly,  he 
could  hardly  recognize  the  scholastic  philosopher 
with  the  lean,  yellow  and  unhealthy  face,  the  pe- 
dantic severity  in  his  eyes,  the  disheveled  hair  and 
beard,  the  absent-minded  abruptness  of  movement, 
the  ink-blots  on  his  fingers,  and  the  Cynic  toga, — 
Julian  the  rhetorician,  whom  the  street-boys  of 
Antioch  jeered  at. 

"Listen!    Listen!    Ca?sar  is  going  to  speak!" 

All  became  silent.  The  only  sounds  were  the 
low  rattle  of  weapons,  the  murmuring  of  the  water 
around  the  ships,  and  the  rustling  of  the  silken 
standards. 

"Valorous  warriors!"  began  Julian,  in  a  strong, 
sonorous  voice,  "I  see  such  courage  and  gladness 
in  your  faces  that  I  cannot  refrain  from  a  joyful 
greeting.  Eemember,  friends,  that  universal  des- 
tinies are  in  our  hands.  We  go  to  restore  the  an- 
cient glory  of  Rome.  Therefore  be  of  good  heart, 
and  make  ready  to  face  all.  For  us.  there  is  no 
more  return.  I  shall  be  at  your  head,  or  among 


382  Julian  the  Apostate. 

your  ranks,  on  horse  or  on  foot,  taking  part  in 
all  your  difficulties  and  dangers,  not  above  the  last 
of  my  soldiers,  because  from  this  day  forth  you  are 
not  servants,  but  my  equals,  my  children!  And 
if  traitorous  fate  has  decreed  that  I  shall  fall  in 
the  struggle,  I  shall  be  happy,  for  I  die  for  ever- 
lasting Home  like  the  great  men  of  old,  the  Scsevo- 
las,  the  Curtii,  and  the  noblest  scions  of  the  Decii. 
Quit  yourselves  like  men,  my  companions,  and  re- 
member that  victory  is  to  the  valiant!" 

He  drew  his  sword,  and  stretched  it  forth,  and 
with  a  smile  pointed  to  the  distant  horizon  of  the 
desert. 

The  soldiers  raised  their  shields  in  unison,  and 
struck  them  with  a  cry  of  joy: 

"Glory  to  Caesar  the  Victorious!" 

The  war-galleys  cut  the  waters  of  the  Euphrates 
and  the  Roman  eagles  spread  their  wings  above 
the  cohorts,  as  his  white  charger  bore  the  young 
emperor  towards  the  rising  sun. 

But  a  cold,  pale  blue  shadow  fell  on  the  smooth 
white  sand,  from  the  pyramid  of  Gordianus.  Soon 
Julian  passed  from  the  morning  sunlight  into  the 
long  ominous  shadow  of  the  lonely  tomb. 


CHAPTER  XV. 
ON  THE  EUPHRATES. 

The  army  marched  along  the  left  bank  of  the 
Euphrates. 

The  plain,  broad  and  smooth  as  the  sea,  was 
covered  with  silver-grey  brushwood.  There  were 


On  the  Euphrates.  383 

no  trees.  The  bushes  and  grass  had  an  aromatic 
odor.  Now  and  then  a  herd  of  wild  asses  appeared 
on  the  horizon,  in  a  cloud  of  dust.  Ostriches  ran 
before  the  army.  The  plump,  dainty  flesh  of  great 
bustards  smoked  over  the  camp-fires  of  the  soldiers 
at  supper.  Jests  and  songs  continued  the  whole 
night  through.  The  march  was  like  a  holiday- 
party.  Graceful,  slender-legged  gazelles  sped  be- 
fore them,  with  airy  lightness,  hardly  touching  the 
ground:  they  had  soft  winning  eyes,  like  the  eyes 
of  fascinating  women. 

The  soldiers,  who  sought  glory,  prey  and  blood 
in  the  desert,  met  only  a  silent  welcome,  star-lit 
nights,  quiet  sunsets  and  sunrises,  and  the  sweet- 
smelling  gloom  of  evening,  full  of  the  odor  of 
scented  brushwood. 

They  went  on  further  and  further,  without  find- 
ing the  enemy. 

And  as  soon  as  they  had  passed,  the  silence 
again  descended  on  the  plain,  as  water  closes  be- 
hind a  passing  ship,  and  the  stems  of  the  grass 
that  the  feet  of  the  legionaries  had  trodden  down, 
rose  softly  upright. 

Suddenly  the  desert  took  on  a  threatening  face. 
Clouds  covered  the  sky.  Rain  began  to  fall.  The 
lightning  killed  a  soldier  who  was  leading  his 
horse  to  the  water. 

The  days  began  to  grow  hot  at  the^nd  of  April. 
The  soldiers  who  walked  in  the  shadow  of  the 
camels,  or  of  the  baggage- wagons  with  their  can- 
vas covers  were  envied  by  their  companions.  The 
men  of  the  distant  north,  the  Gauls  and  Scythians 
died  of  sunstroke.  The  plain  became  bleak,  bald, 
and  only  here  and  there  dotted  with  tufts  of  dry 
grass.  Their  feet  sank  in  the  sand. 


384  Julian  the  Apostate. 

Sudden  hurricanes  blew  so  fiercely  that  they 
tore  away  the  standards,  and  even  whole  tents. 
Men  and  horses  were  struck  to  the  ground.  Then 
again  came  a  strange  and  sudden  silence,  that 
seemed  to  the  frightened  soldiers  more  terrible 
even  than  the  storm.  Jests  and  songs  were  no 
longer  heard.  But  the  soldiers  went  ever  further 
and  further,  without  meeting  the  enemy. 

At  the  beginning  of  May,  they  entered  the 
palm-groves  of  Assyria. 

At  Macepracta,  where  were  still  visible  the  ruins 
of  a  great  wall  built  by  the  ancient  Assyrian  kings, 
they  saw  the  enemy  for  the  first  time.  The  Per- 
sians retreated  with  unexpected  readiness. 

Through  a  storm  of  poisoned  arrows  the  Eo- 
mans  crossed  a  deep  canal  which  united  the  Eu- 
phrates with  the  Tigris.  This  mighty  fortifica- 
tion, made  of  Babylonian  bricks,  and  cutting 
through  the  whole  of  Mesopotamia  with  geomet- 
rical accuracy,  was  called  Nahar-Malcha,  the  River 
of  the  Kings. 

Suddenly  the  Persians  disappeared.  The  level 
of  the  Nahar-Malcha  rose.  Then  overflowing  its 
banks,  the  water  poured  over  the  surrounding 
plain.  The  Persians  had  caused  an  inundation, 
opening  the  sluices  and  flood-gates  of  the  canals 
which  irrigated  the  withered  earth  of  the  Assyr- 
ian plains  through  a  net- work  of  channels. 

The  infantry  walked  up  to  their  knees  in  water. 
Their  feet  stuck  in  the  heavy,  clinging  mud. 
Whole  companies  fell  into  unseen  channels,  and 
unexpected  morasses,  and  even  horses  with  their 
riders,  and  loaded  camels  disappeared.  They  had 
to  feel  their  way  with  stakes. 


On  the  Euphrates.  385 

The  plain  became  a  lake,  with  the  palm-groves 
for  islands. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  murmured  the  cowardly, 
"what  are  we  looking  for?  Why  do  we  not  go 
back  to  the  river  at  once,  and  go  aboard  the  ships? 
We  are  soldiers, — not  frogs,  to  swim  about  in 
muddy  pools." 

Julian  went  on  foot  beside  the  soldiers  in  the 
ranks,  even  in  the  most  difficult  places.  With  his 
own  hands  he  helped  to  pull  out  the  heavily  loaded 
wagons,  when  their  wheels  stuck  in  the  mire,  and 
even  jested,  showing  the  soldiers  his  imperial  pur- 
ple, wet  and  besmirched  with  dark  green  slime. 

They  made  rafts  of  palm-trees,  and  built  float- 
ing bridges  on  inflated  skins. 

When  night  came  on,  the  army  managed  to 
reach  a  dry  camping  ground. 

The  worn-out  soldiers  sank  into  a  troubled  sleep. 

In  the  morning,  they  saw  the  fortress  of  Peri- 
sabor. 

The  Persians  shot  at  their  enemies,  from  the 
summits  of  inaccessible  towers  and  walls  hung 
with  thick  cushions  of  goat-skin,  to  guard  against 
the  blows  of  siege-machines.  The  whole  day  was 
spent  in  an  exchange  of  iron  missiles  and  taunts. 

In  the  darkness  of  a  moonless  night,  the  Ro- 
mans, preserving  absolute  silence,  brought  their 
catapults  and  battering  rams  from  the  ships,  and 
set  them  close  up  to  the  walls  of  Perisabor. 

Cries  filled  the  air. 

By  means  of  a  "maleola,"  or  fire-bolt,  a  huge 
distaff-shaped  missile  full  of  a  burning  mixture  of 
pitch,  sulphur,  oil,  and  tar,  the  Romans  succeeded 
in  setting  fire  to  the  carpet  of  goat's-hide  which 
hung  on  the  wall.  The  Persians  rushed  to  extin- 


386  Julian  the  Apostate. 

guish  the  fire.  Taking  advantage  of  this  moment 
of  confusion,  the  emperor  ordered  the  siege- 
machine  to  be  brought  forward. 

It  was  a  huge  pine,  hung  on  chains  from  a  pyr- 
amidal tower  of  beams.  The  trunk  ended  in  a 
bronze  ram.  Hundreds  of  powerful  legionaries, 
with  a  strong,  sing-song  cry  of  aone,  two,  three!" 
set  the  battering  ram  swinging.  The  muscles  on. 
their  dusky  shoulders  stood  out,  as  they  strained 
at  the  thick  ropes  of  tightly  twisted  ox-gut,  and 
swayed  the  heavy  pine-trunk. 

The  first  blow  sounded  like  a  peal  of  thunder. 
The  earth  rang,  the  walls  trembled.  Then  again 
and  again  the  tree-stem  swung  back,  the  blows  fell 
thick  and  fast,  the  ram  seemed  to  grow  furious  and 
struck  its  bronze  head  against  the  wall  in  obstinate 
anger.  Suddenly  a  crash  was  heard,  and  a  whole 
corner  of  the  wall  gave  way. 

The  Persians  fled  with  a  cry  of  despair. 

Julian,  his  helmet  flashing  in  a  cloud  of  dust, 
joyful  and  terrible  as  a  god  of  war,  pressed  for- 
ward into  the  captured  city. 

The  army  advanced.  For  two  days,  the  soldiers 
rested  in  fresh  shady  groves,  refreshing  themselves 
with  a  cooling  acid  drink  like  wine,  made  of 
palm  juice,  and  with  aromatic  Babylonian  dates, 
transparent,  and  golden-yellow  like  amber. 

Then  they  entered  a  wild  and  stony  plain.  The 
heat  was  oppressive.  Men  and  animals  fell  dead. 
The  air  at  midday  shimmered  and  curled  above 
the  cliffs,  in  hot  wavelike  layers.  The  river  Tigris 
flowed  through  the  grey,  ash-colored  plain,  glitter- 
ing like  scales  of  silver,  like  a  lazy  snake  warming 
its  supple  folds  in  the  noonday  heat. 

The  Romans  saw  a  huge  wall  overhanging  the 


On  the  Euphrates.  387 

Tigris,  red  and  bare,  with  uneven,  pointed  peaks. 
It  was  a  second  fortress  guarding  Ctesiphon,  the 
southern  capital  of  Persia,  even  more  inaccessible 
than  Perisabor, — a  true  eagle's  nest  above  the 
clouds.  The  sixteen  towers  and  double  wall  of 
Maogamalcha  were  built  of  the  famous  Babylo- 
nian bricks,  dried  in  the  sun,  and  laid  in  tar,  like 
all  the  old  Assyrian  buildings,  which  have  noth- 
ing to  fear  even  from  tens  of  centuries. 

The  assault  began.  Once  more  the  huge,  un- 
wieldy arms  of  the  balistae  creaked,  the  wheels, 
blocks  and  pulleys  of  the  catapultas  whirred,  and 
the  fiery  maleolae  hissed  through  the  air. 

It  was  the  hour  when  the  lizards  sleep  in  the 
crevices  of  the  cliffs.  The  rays  of  the  sun  fell  on 
the  backs  and  heads  of  the  soldiers  like  a  crushing 
weight.  Their  glitter  was  terrible.  The  legion- 
aries tore  off  their  glowing  helmets  and  breast- 
plates in  despair,  in  spite  of  the  commands  of  their 
leaders  and  regardless  of  danger.  They  preferred 
wounds  to  the  scorching  heat.  Above  the  dark 
brown  brick  towers  and  embrasures  of  Maogamal- 
cha, whence  fell  showers  of  poisonous  arrows, 
spears,  stones,  leaden  and  clay  projectiles,  naming 
.  Persian  phalarici  which  poisoned  the  air  with  a 
foul  stench  of  sulphur  and  naphtha,  hung  the 
dusty  sky,  with  its  hardly  perceptible  tinge  of 
azure,  terrible,  blinding,  inexorable  as  death. 

The  sky  overcame  the  hostility  of  men.  Be- 
siegers and  besieged  ceased  from  the  fight,  worn 
out  and  weary. 

A  silence  came  over  them,  strange  in  that  bright 
noontide,  more  full  of  death  than  the  depth  of 
night. 

The  "Romans  did  not  lose  courage. 


388  Julian  the  Apostate. 

Since  the  capture  of  Perisabor,  they  had  be- 
lieved the  emperor  invincible,  comparing  him  to 
Alexander  the  Great,  and  looking  for  miracles. 

During  several  days  the  soldiers  dug  a  mine  on 
the  eastern  side  of  Maogamalcha,  where  the  cliffs 
descended  more  obliquely  to  the  plain.  Advan- 
cing under  the  wall  of  the  fortress,  the  mine  ended 
in  the  center  of  the  town.  The  width  of  the  sub- 
terranean passage  was  three  cubits,  and  allowed  two 
soldiers  to  advance  together.  Thick  wooden  beams 
set  at  some  distance  from  each  other,  upheld  the 
roof.  The  sappers  worked  gaily;  after  the  sun,  the 
coldness  and  damp  of  the  mine  was  pleasant 
enough. 

"It  is  not  so  long  since  we  were  frogs,"  laughed 
the  soldiers,  "now  we  are  moles." 

Three  cohorts,  the  Matiarii,  the  Lacinarii  and 
the  Victores,  fifteen  hundred  of  the  bravest  war- 
riors, entered  the  underground  gallery  in  the  most 
perfect  silence,  and  impatiently  awaited  the  or- 
ders of  their  commanders  to  break  through  into 
the  city. 

At  dawn,  the  attack  was  intentionally  directed 
to  two  different  points,  so  as  to  divert  the  attention 
of  the  Persians. 

Julian  led  the  soldiers  up  a  narrow  path  over  a 
precipice,  under  a  hail  of  arrows  and  stones.  "Let 
us  see,"  he  said,  exulting  in  the  danger,  "whether 
the  gods  will  preserve  me,  whether  a  miracle  will 
happen,  whether  I  shall  be  saved  from  death." 

With  irresistible  curiosity  and  a  thirst  for  the 
supernatural,  he  exposed  himself  to  danger,  seek- 
ing fate  with  a  challenging  smile.  He  feared  not 
death,  but  only  to  lose  that  purposeless,  intoxica- 
ting game  with  the  Higher  Powers. 


On  the  Euphrates.  389 

And  the  soldiers  followed  him,  charmed  and  in- 
fected by  his  courage. 

The  Persians,  laughing  at  the  efforts  of  the  be- 
siegers, sang  aloud  in  praise  of  King  Sapor,  the 
Son  of  the  Sun,  and  cried  to  the  Romans,  from  the 
cloud-capped  towers  of  Maogamalcha: 

"Julian  will  sooner  reach  the  Hall  of  High  Or- 
muzd  than  the  heart  of  our  fortress!" 

In  the  heat  of  the  attack,  the  emperor  whispered 
the  word  of  command  to  the  generals. 

The  soldiers  hidden  in  the  mine  came  forth  in 
the  center  of  the  city,  in  the  cellar  of  a  house 
where  an  old  Persian  woman  was  baking  cakes. 
She  uttered  a  piercing  shriek,  when  she  saw  the 
Roman  legionaries.  They  killed  her. 

Stealing  up  unobserved,  they  threw  themselves 
on  the  besieged  from  behind.  The  Persians  threw 
down  their  weapons,  and  fled  through  the  streets 
of  Maogamalcha.  Then  the  Romans  within  the 
fort  opened  the  gates  to  Julian,  and  the  city  was 
captured  from  both  sides. 

Then  the  soldiers  no  longer  doubted  that  the 
emperor,  like  Alexander  of  Macedon,  would  con- 
quer the  Persian  monarchy  as  far  as  India. 

The  army  was  approaching  Ctesiphon,  the 
southern  capital  of  Persia.  The  boats  remained  011 
the  Euphrates. 

Julian,  with  that  feverish  and  almost  magical 
swiftness  which  gave  the  enemy  no  time  to  think, 
restored  the  old  Roman  connecting  canal,  dug  by 
Trajan  and  Septimhis  Severus,  to  guard  against 
onslaughts  of  the  Persians. 

Through  this  canal,  the  fleet  was  taken  to  the 
Tigris  a  short  distance  above  the  walls  of  Ctesi- 


390  Julian  the  Apostate. 

phon.  The  emperor  had  penetrated  to  the  very 
heart  of  the  Central  Asian  monarchy. 

On  the  evening  of  the  following  day,  Julian, 
calling  a  Council  of  war,  announced  that  he  would 
that  night  transfer  the  army  to  the  other  bank,  up 
to  the  walls  of  Ctesiphon.  Dagalaiphus,  Hormis- 
das,  Secundinus,  Victor,  Sallustius,  all  men  ex- 
perienced in  war,  were  terror-struck,  and  for  a 
long  time  pleaded  with  the  emperor  to  desist  from 
such  a  daring  undertaking.  They  pointed  to  the 
weariness  of  the  army,  the  width  of  the  river,  the 
speed  of  the  current,  the  steepness  of  the  opposite 
bank,  the  proximity  of  Ctesiphon,  the  vast  army 
of  King  Sapor,  and  the  fact  that  the  Persians 
would  inevitably  make  a  sally,  while  the  Eomans 
were  crossing  over.  Julian  would  not  hear  them. 

"However  long  we  may  wait,"  he  exclaimed  at 
last,  impatiently,  "the  river  will  not  grow  nar- 
rower, nor  the  banks  less  steep,  but  the  army  of 
the  Persians  will  receive  new  reinforcements  every 
day.  If  I  had  listened  to  your  counsels,  we  should 
still  be  at  Antioch!" 

The  generals  left  him  in  dismay. 

"He  cannot  hold  out!"  said  the  experienced  and 
wise  Dagalaiphus,  a  barbarian  who  had  entered 
the  Eoman  service,  "he  cannot  hold  out.  He  is 
gay,  it  is  true,  and  he  even  laughs,  but  still  there 
is  something  not  all  right  in  his  face.  I  have  seen 
an  expression  like  that  in  the  faces  of  people  who 
were  at  the  point  of  despair,  and  tired  to  death. 
It  is  not  a  wholesome  gayety." 

The  hot  misty  twilight  descended  swiftly  on  the 
surface  of  the  mighty  river.  The  signal  was  given. 
The  dip  of  the  oars  was  heard  for  a  long  time;  then 
all  was  still.  The  gloom  became  impenetrable. 


On  the  Euphrates.  391 

Julian  looked  steadily  from  the  bank.  He  hid  his 
excitement  with  a  smile.  The  generals  whispered 
to  each  other.  Suddenly  a  fire  flashed  up  in  the 
darkness.  All  held  their  breaths,  and  turned  their 
eyes  to  the  emperor.  He  understood  what  that 
fire  meant.  The  Persians  had  succeeded  in  setting 
fire  to  the  Eoman  ships  with  fire-bolts,  thrown 
down  skilfully  from  the  steep  bank. 

He  grew  pale,  but  came  to  himself  in  a  moment, 
and  without  giving  the  soldiers  time  to  think, 
threw  himself  into  the  first  vessel  that  came  to 
hand,  moored  close  to  the  bank,  and  cried  aloud, 
with  a  triumphant  smile  to  the  army: 

"Victory,  victory!  See!  the  fire!  They  have 
scaled  the  bank  and  taken  possession  of  it.  I  or- 
dered the  cohort  that  was  sent  to  light  fires  in, 
sign  of  victory.  Follow  me,  companions!" 

"What  are  you  doing?"  the  cautious  Sallustius 
whispered  to  him;  "we  are  lost.  That  is  a  confla- 
gration." 

"Caesar  has  gone  mad/'  Hormisdas  muttered  to 
Dagalaiphus,  in  terror. 

The  cunning  barbarian  shrugged  his  shoulders 
in  bewilderment. 

The  army  hastened  towards  the  bank  with  irre- 
sistible speed.  With  a  triumphant  cry  of:  "Vic- 
tory! victory!"  they  urged  each  other  on,  vying 
with  each  other,  falling  into  the  water  and  climb- 
ing out  again,  swearing  merrily,  and  all  swarmed 
aboard  the  boats.  Several  small  barques  were  al- 
most upset.  There  was  no  more  room  on  the  gal- 
leys. 

Many  horsemen  swam  in,  turning  the  breasts  of 
their  horses  up  the  swift  current.  The  Kelts  and 
Bavarians  pushed  off  into  the  dark  river  on  their 


392  Julian  the  Apostate. 

huge  leather  shields  bent  like  coracles.  They 
swam  through  the  mist  utterly  fearless,  and  their 
shields  whirled  round  in  the  swift  eddies,  but  not 
noticing  their  danger,  the  soldiers  raised  the  joy- 
ful cry:  "Victory,  victory!" 

The  force  of  the  current  was  temporarily  broken 
by  the  ships  which  dammed  the  river.  The  fire 
on  the  first  five  galleys  was  easily  put  out. 

It  was  only  then  that  all  understood  the  em- 
peror's daring  strategy.  But  the  soldiers  only  grew 
merrier.  Now,  when  they  had  overcome  such  a 
danger,  everything  seemed  possible. 

Not  long  before  the  dawn,  they  gained  posses- 
sion of  the  heights,  on  the  opposite  bank.  The 
Eomans  had  hardly  had  time  to  refresh  themselves 
with  a  short  sleep,  without  taking  off  their  armor, 
when  they  saw  a  huge  army  in  the  dawning  light, 
stretching  from  the  walls  of  Ctesiphon  to  the  plain 
in  front  of  the  city. 

The  battle  lasted  for  twelve  hours.  The  Per- 
sians fought  with  the  fury  of  despair.  It  was  here 
that  Julian's  army  for  the  first  time  encountered 
huge  battle-elephants  that  could  crush  a  whole 
cohort,  like  a  field  of  corn. 

The  victory  was  such  as  the  Eomans  had  not 
gained  since  the  times  of  the  great  emperors,  Tra- 
jan, Vespasian  and  Titus.  At  sunrise,  Julian  of- 
fered a  solemn  sacrifice  to  Ares  the  War-god:  ten 
white  bullocks  of  rare  beauty,  that  recalled  the 
images  of  the  consecrated  oxen  on  the  ancient 
Greek  bas-reliefs.  Every  one  was  in  holiday  mood. 
The  Tuscan  augurs  alone  maintained  an  obstinate 
and  malicious  silence  as  before.  With  every  vic- 
tory that  Julian  won,  they  grew  more  gloomy,  se- 
cretive and  enigmatical.  The  first  bullock  was 


On  the  Euphrates.  393 

led  up  to  the  lighted  altar,  wreathed  with  laurels. 
The  ox  walked  sluggishly  and  quietly,  then  sud- 
denly slipped  and  fell  on  its  knees,  with  a  strange 
and  piteous  lowing  like  a  human  voice,  at  the 
sound  of  which  a  chill  crept  over  every  one's  body; 
then  it  laid  its  muzzle  in  the  dust,  and  before 
the  two-edged  axe  of  the  victimarius  touched  its 
broad  forehead,  it  shivered  and  died.  They  brought 
another.  It  fell  dead  in  the  same  way.  Then  a 
third,  and  a  fourth.  All  came  up  to  the  altar  list- 
less, weak,  hardly  able  to  stand,  as  if  they  were 
stricken  with  a  mortal  illness,  and  lowing  mourn- 
fully, fell  dead.  A  murmur  of  terror  spread 
through  the  army.  It  was  a  terrible  omen. 

Many  asserted  that  the  Tuscan  augurs  had  in- 
tentionally poisoned  the  oxen,  in  order  to  take 
vengeance  on  the  emperor  for  his  contempt  of 
their  sooth-saying. 

Nine  oxen  fell.  The  tenth  broke  loose,  burst  its 
cords,  and  charged,  bellowing  and  scattering  con- 
fusion through  the  army.  It  ran  out  through  the 
gates  of  the  camp,  and  the  soldiers  were  not  able 
to  catch  it. 

The  sacrifice  was  disorganized.  The  augurs  were 
malignantly  delighted. 

When  they  cut  open  the  dead  bullocks,  Julian's 
practised  eye  saw  in  their  intestines  certain  and 
dire  auspices.  He  turned  away.  His  face  was 
covered  with  pallor.  He  tried  to  smile  and  could 
not.  Suddenly  he  approached  the  blazing  altar, 
and  kicked  it  with  all  his  strength.  The  altar 
swayed,  but  did  not  fall.  The  crowd  sighed  heav- 
ily like  a  single  man.  The  prefect  Sallustius  hur- 
ried up  to  the  emperor  and  whispered  to  him: 


394:  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"The  soldiers  are  watching.  Better  cut  the  ser- 
vice short." 

Julian  pushed  him  aside,  and  kicked  the  altar 
harder.  The  altar  fell,  and  the  ashes  were  scat- 
tered on  the  ground.  The  fire  went  out,  but  the 
aromatic  smoke  rose  in  still  thicker  clouds. 

"Woe,  woe  unto  us!  the  altar  is  polluted!"  cried 
some  one's  voice,  in  the  crowd. 

"I  tell  you  that  he  is  mad,"  muttered  Hormis- 
das,  in  terror,  seizing  Dagalaiphus  by  the  arm. 
"Look  at  his  face.  I  wonder  the  rest  do  not  see 
it." 

The  Tuscan  augurs  stood  as  before  calm,  un- 
moved, with  stern,  impassive  faces. 

Julian  raised  his  hands  towards  the  sky.  His 
eyes  shone.  He  cried  aloud: 

"I  swear  by  the  everlasting  joy  hidden  here  in 
my  heart  that  I  renounce  you,  as  you  have  re- 
nounced me,  I  turn  away  from  you  as  you  have 
turned  away  from  me,  blessed,  powerless  gods!  I 
stand  alone  against  you,  shadows  of  Olympus!  I 
am  like  unto  you;  but  not  your  equal,  because  I  am 
a  man,  and  you  are  only  gods.  Long  has  my  heart 
thirsted  for  this  final  liberation,  and  now  1  tear 
our  treaty  in  pieces.  I  laugh  at  my  superstitious 
fear,  at  the  childish  lisping  of  your  prophecies.  I 
have  lived  like  a  slave,  and  might  have  died  like 
a  slave,  but  I  have  awakened,  I  have  understood, 
— I  am  stronger  than  the  gods,  because,  subject  to 
death,  I  have  conquered  death.  There  is  no  more 
place  for  dejection,  there  is  no  place  for  fear,  no 
place  for  sacrifices,  no  place  for  prayers.  It  is 
finished.  Henceforth,  there  will  not  be  one  shadow 
in  my  life,  nor  any  trembling,  nothing  but  eternal 
Olympian  laughter,  which  I  rob  you  of;  and  when 


On  the  Euphrates.  395 

I  die,  nothing  but  the  heavenly  fire,  which  I  wrest 
from  you,  immortals!  My  life  shall  be  like  the 
motionless  azure,  in  which  ye  once  dwelt  and  now 
die,  giving  place  to  us,  who  are  like  unto  the 
gods!" 

A  bent  nonagenarian  augur,  with  a  long  white 
beard  and  a  crooked  priestly  crozier,  came  up  to 
t  he  emperor  and  laid  his  still  firm,  strong  hand  on 
his  shoulder: 

"Hush,  my  child,  hush!  If  you  have  won  the 
secret,  rejoice  in  silence.  Do  not  lead  the  crowd 
away.  Those  are  listening  to  you,  who  may  not 
understand." 

The  murmur  of  discontent  grew  stronger. 

"He  is  raving.  He  is  simply  raving/''  Hormis- 
das  whispered  to  Dagalaiphus,  "he  should  be  taken 
to  his  tent.  Otherwise  things  may  turn  out  ill." 

Oribasius  hurried  up  to  Julian,  with  his  wonted 
air  of  concern,  as  a  self-forgetting  physician.  He 
cautiously  took  the  emperor  by  the  arm,  and  began 
to  address  him  insinuatingly,  as  people  talk  to  a 
sick  man: 

"Most  gracious  Augustus,  you  .need  rest.  You 
have  not  slept  for  two  nights.  How  hot  your 
hands  are!  There  are  dangerous  fevers  in  these 
lands, — let  us  go  to  your  tent.  The  sun  is  inju- 
rious. Your  illness  may  be  aggravated." 

The  emperor  looked  at  him  with  a  vague  smile: 

"Wait,  Oribasius.  I  have  forgotten  something. 
Yes — yes.  This  is  the  most  important  thing. 
Listen, — do  not  say:  the  gods  are  no  more,  but, 
the  gods  are  not  yet.  They  are  not,  but  they  shall 
be, — not  in  the  heavens,  but  here,  upon  earth.  We 
shall  all  be  as  gods,  only  we  must  have  mighty  dar- 


39(5  Julian  the  Apostate. 

ing,  such  as  no  man  has  yet  had  on  earth,  not  even 
the  hero,  Alexander  of  Macedon." 

The  disturbance  among  the  soldiers  grew  dan- 
gerous. The  murmurs  and  exclamations  grew  into 
an  open  expression  of  dissatisfaction.  No  one  un- 
derstood anything  clearly,  but  all  felt  that  some- 
thing evil  was  happening.  Some  cried  out  in 
superstitious  terror: 

"Sacrilege!  sacrilege!  Lift  up  the  altar!  Why 
do  the  priests  look  on?" 

Others  answered: 

"The  priests  have  poisoned  Caesar,  because  he 
would  not  listen  to  their  counsels.  Beat  the 
priests!  They  are  bringing  us  to  destruction!" 

The  Galileans,  taking  advantage  of  a  favorable 
opportunity,  hurried  and  pushed  in  every  direc- 
tion, with  most  humble  countenances,  smiling  and 
whispering  to  each  other,  inventing  gossip,  and 
like  snakes  awakening  from  their  serpent's  sleep, 
just  warmed  by  the  sun,  began  to  hiss: 

"Can  you  not  see?  God  is  punishing  him.  It 
is  a  fearful  thing  to  fall  into  the  hajids  of  the 
living  God!  The  devils  have  gained  dominion 
over  him,  the  devils  have  confused  his  reason, — 
and  so  he  rises  up  against  the  very  gods  for  whom 
he  renounced  the  One  God." 

The  emperor,  as  if  awakening  from  a  deep 
sleep,  enveloped  them  all  in  a  slow  glance,  and 
finally,  with  an  expression  of  perfect  calm,  asked 
Oribasius: 

"What  is  the  matter?  What  are  they  shouting 
about?  What  has  happened?  Oh,  yes,  the  over- 
turned altar." 

He  looked  at  the  ashes  of  incense,  smouldering 
in  the  dust,  with  a  sad  mockery: 


On  the  Euphrates.  3D 7 

"Do  you  know,  my  learned  friend,  that  nothing 
wounds  people  like  the  truth?  Poor  silly  chil- 
dren! Well,  well,  let  them  cry,  let  them  weep; 
they  will  soon  be  consoled  again.  Come,  Oriba- 
sius,  let  us  go  into  the  shade.  You  are  right,  the 
sun  must  be  too  strong  for  me.  My  eyes  are  sore. 
I  am  tired." 

Julian  walked  slowly,  leaning  on  the  physician's 
arm.  Entering  his  pavilion,  he  signed  to  all  to 
depart,  by  a  listless  gesture.  They  closed  the 
doors,  and  it  grew  dark  within  the  tent. 

The  emperor  went  to  his  hard  traveling  couch, 
— a  lion's  skin, — and  fell  helplessly  on  it.  He  lay 
thus  for  a  long  time  on  the  ground,  pressing  his 
head  between  his  hands,  as  he  used  to  in  child- 
hood, after  sorrow  or  insult. 

"Softly,  softly,  Ca3sar  is  ill,"  the  generals  tried 
to  calm  the  excited  soldiers. 

The  soldiers  grew  quiet,  and  kept  silent. 

Silence  fell  over  the  Eoman  camp,  as  over  a 
sick-room,  a  silence  full  of  ominous  and  harassing 
expectation. 

The  Galileans  alone  did  not  wait  nor  linger,  but 
hurried  hither  and  thither,  gliding  unobserved 
and  penetrating  everywhere,  spreading  dark 
rumors,  and  hissing  as  snakes  hiss  when  they  wake 
from  their  serpents'  sleep,  warmed  by  the  sun. 

"Can  you  not  see?  God  is  punishing  him.  It 
is  a  fearful  thing  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the 
living  God!" 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
HOW  THE  SHIPS  WERE  BURNED. 

Oribasius  looked  cautiously  into  the  tent  several 
times,  and  offered  the  sick  man  a  cooling  draught. 
Julian  declined  it,  and  asked  to  be  left  in  peace. 
He  feared  human  faces,  sounds,  and  light. 

Clasping  his  head  in  his  hands  as  before,  he 
tried  to  think  of  nothing,  to  forget  where  he  was, 
and  what  had  happened  to  him. 

The  unnatural  strain  on  his  will,  which  he  had 
maintained  for  three  months,  deserted  him  and 
left  him  weak  and  broken,  as  if  he  had  had  a  long 
illness. 

He  hardly  knew  whether  he  was  asleep  or  awake. 

Pictures  passed  before  him,  changing  and  melt- 
ing into  each  other  with  irresistible  swiftness  and 
torturing  clearness. 

First  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  lying  in  the 
great  cool  chamber  in  Macellum.  His  decrepit 
old  nurse  Labda  was  crossing  him  for  the  night, 
and  the  snorting  of  the  war-horses  turned  into  the 
ridiculous,  abrupt  snoring  of  the  old  pedagogue 
Mardonius.  He  was  full  of  joy  at  feeling  himself 
once  more  a  little  boy,  quite  unknown,  far  from 
everybody,  amongst  the  mountains  of  Cappadocia. 

Then  he  seemed  to  smell  the  familiar,  fresh  and 
delicate  odor  of  hyacinths,  softly  warmed  by  the 
March  sun,  in  the  snug  little  garden  of  Olympio- 
dorus  the  priest,  and  to  hear  the  dear,  silvery 
laughter  of  Amaryllis,  and  the  murmuring  of  the 
398 


How  the  Ships  Were  Burned.          390 

fountain,  the  sound  of  the  bronze  cups,  in  the 
game  of  cottabus,  and  Diophane's  cry  from  the 
kitchen,  before  dinner:  "My  children,  the  ginger 
cakes  are  ready." 

Then  all  vanished. 

And  he  heard  only  how  the  first  flies  of  Janu- 
ary, rejoicing  in  the  heat  of  noon,  sang  their 
springtide  songs  in  a  corner  sheltered  from  the 
wind,  on  the  white  wall  beside  the  sea.  At  his 
feet,  the  bright  green  waves  died  away  without 
foam.  He  watched  the  sails  with  a  smile,  as  they 
sank  in  the  infinite  softness  of  the  sea  and  the 
winter  sun,  knowing  that  in  that  blessed  loneli- 
ness there  was  none  but  he,  and  like  the  black 
flies  on  the  wall,  feeling  only  the  innocent  glad- 
ness of  life,  the  sunlight  and  the  stillness. 

Suddenly  Julian  awoke,  and  remembered  that 
he  was  in  the  depths  of  Persia,  that  he  was  the 
Roman  emperor,  that  he  had  sixty  thousand  sol- 
diers on  his  hands,  that  the  gods  were  not,  that 
he  had  thrown  down  the  altar  and  committed  sac- 
rilege. He  shuddered.  A  cold  chill  ran  through 
his  body.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  broken 
loose,  and  was  falling  through  an  abyss,  and  had 
nothing  to  catch  hold  of. 

He  could  not  say  whether  he  had  lain  in  that 
trance  one  hour  or  twenty-four. 

But  the  voice  of  his  faithful  old  slave  sounded 
clear,  not  in  dream,  but  in  broad  wakefulness,  as 
he  cautiously  put  his  head  into  the  door: 

"Cassar!  I  am  afraid  to  disturb  you,  but  I  dare 
not  disobey  you.  You  ordered  me  to  tell  yon 
without  delay.  The  General  Arintheus  has  just 
reached  the  camp." 

"Arintheus!"  cried  Julian,  and  sprang  to  his 


400  Julian  the  Apostate. 

feet,  awakened  as  if  by  a  thunderclap,  "Arin- 
theus!  Call  him,  call  him  hither!" 

Arintheus  was  one  of  his  bravest  generals  who 
had  been  sent  with  a  small  division  to  the  north, 
to  find  out  whether  the  auxiliary  army  of  thirty 
thousand  men  under  Procopus  and  Sebastian  was 
approaching, — the  army  which  had  been  ordered 
to  join  the  forces  of  Eome's  ally,  Arsaces  King  of 
Armenia,  and  to  unite  with  the  emperor  under 
the  walls  of  Ctesiphon.  Julian  had  long  been 
waiting  for  these  reinforcements.  The  fate  of  the 
main  army  depended  on  them. 

"Bring  him  here,"  exclaimed  the  emperor, 
"Bring  him  herd  Quick!  Or,  no.  I  will  go 
myself." 

But  his  weakness  had  not  quite  passed,  in  spite 
of  his  momentary  excitement.  His  head  felt 
dazed.  He  closed  his  eyes  and  had  to  lean  for  sup- 
port against  the  canvas  wall  of  the  tent. 

"Give  me  some  wine — strong — with  cold  water.'* 

The  old  servant  bustled  about,  hurriedly  filled 
a  drinking-cup,  and  gave  it  to  the  emperor. 

Julian  drank  it  in  slow  draughts,  to  the  last 
drop,  and  sighed  with  relief.  Then  he  left  the 
tent. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening.  A  storm  was  pass- 
ing, far  away  across  the  Euphrates.  The  gusts  of 
wind  brought  a  fresh  dampness,  a  smell  of  rain. 

Through  the  dark  clouds  a  few  big  stars  were 
shimmering  like  lamp-flames  flickering  in  the 
wind.  The  cry  of  the  jackals  was  borne  up  from 
the  desert.  Julian  bared  his  breast,  turned  his 
face  to  the  wind,  and  felt  with  delight  the  vigor- 
ous caress  of  the  departing  storm  playing  with  his 
hair. 


How  the  Ships  Were  Burned.         401 

He  smiled,  remembering  his  faintness  of  spirit. 
His  weakness  vanished.  The  pleasant  tension  of 
moral  forces  returned  like  an  intoxication.  His 
nerves  were  strained  like  tightened  chords.  He 
felt  a  desire  to  command,  to  act,  to  keep  vigil 
through  the  whole  night,  to  go  into  battle,  to  play 
with  life  and  death,  to  vanquish  danger.  Only 
from  time  to  time  a  cold  chill  ran  over  his  body. 
Arintheus  came  up. 

His  tidings  were  melancholy.  Every  hope  of 
help  from  Procopius  and  Sebastian  had  disap- 
peared. The  emperor  was  deserted  by  his  allies, 
in  the  unknown  depths  of  Asia. 

There  were  gloomy  rumors  of  treachery,  of  the 
crafty  Arsaces  having  betrayed  him. 

At  that  moment  the  emperor  was  informed  that 
a  Persian  fugitive  from  King  Sapor's  camp  wished 
to  speak  to  him. 

He  was  brought. 

The  Persian  prostrated  himself  before  Julian, 
and  kissed  the  earth.  He  was  a  monster  of  dis- 
figurement. His  shaven  head  was  scarred  with 
Asiatic  tortures,  his  ears  were  cut  off,  his  nostrils 
were  slit  open,  so  that  he  looked  like  a  skull.  But 
his  eyes  were  full  of  intelligence  and  decision. 
He  wore  costly  raiment  of  fire-colored  Sogdiari 
silk,  and  spoke  in  broken  Greek.  Two  slaves  ac- 
companied him. 

The  Persian,  who  called  himself  Artabanes,  said 
that  he  was  a  satrap  who  had  been  calumniated  to 
Sapor  and  disfigured  by  tortures,  and  that  he  had 
fled  to  the  Romans  to  be  revenged  on  the  king. 

"Oh  universal  ruler!"  said  Artabanes,  in  an  in- 
flated and  flattereing  voice,  "I  shall  deliver  Sapor 
unto  thee,  tied  hand  and  foot  like  a  sheep  for  the 


402  Julian  the  Apostate. 

sacrifice.  I  shall  lead  thee  by  night  to  his  camp 
and  than  shalt  softly,  softly  cover  the  king  with 
thy  hand,  and  take  him,  as  children  take  nestlings 
in  their  palms.  Only  hearken  to  Artabanes. 
Artabanes  can  do  all  things.  Artabanes  knows 
the  secrets  of  the  king." 

"What  do  you  want  of  me?"  asked  Julian. 

"A  mighty  vengeance!    Come  with  me." 

"Whither?" 

"To  the  north,  across  the  desert, — three  hun- 
dred and  twenty-five  parasangs, — then  across  the 
mountains  to  the  east,  straight  to  Susa  and  Ecba- 
tana." 

The  Persian  pointed  to  the  horizon. 

"Thither,  thither,"  he  repeated,  not  taking  his 
eyes  off  Julian's. 

"Ca3sa.r,"  Hormisdas 'whispered  in  the  emperor's 
ear,  "Beware!  That  man  has  an  evil  eye.  He  is 
a  wizard,  a  knave,  or, — let  it  not  be  spoken  at 
night, — something  worse.  Sometimes  dark  things 
stir  in  these  lands  at  night.  Drive  him  away,  do 
not  listen  to  him." 

The  emperor  paid  no  heed  to  Hormisdas'  words. 
He  felt  a  strange  enchantment  in  the  Persian's 
supplicating,  steady  gaze. 

"You  know  the  road  to  Ecbatana  well?" 

"Oh  yes,  yes,  yes,"  muttered  the  Persian,  with 
an  ecstatic  laugh,  "I  know  it — how  could  I  fail 
to  know  it?  Every  blade  of  grass,  every  well  in 
the  wilderness.  Artabanes  knows  what  the  birds 
sing,  hears  how  the  feather-grass  grows,  how  the 
springs  flow  underground.  The  old  wisdom  of 
Zarathustra  is  in  the  heart  of  Artabanes.  He  will 
run,  he  will  run  before  thine  army,  scenting  the 
trail,  pointing  out  the  way.  Believe  me,  and  in 


How  the  Ships  Were  Burned.         403 

twenty  days  all  Persia  shall  be  in  thy  hands,  as 
far  as  India,  as  far  as  the  Ocean!" 

The  emperor's  heart  beat  rapidly. 

"Is  it  possible,"  he  thought,  "that  this  is  the 
miracle  I  have  waited  for?  In  twenty  days  Persia 
shall  be  in  my  hands!" 

His  breathing  stopped,  for  joy. 

"Drive  me  not  away,"  murmured  the  monster, 
"I  will  lie  like  a  dog  at  thy  feet.  When  I  beheld 
thy  face,  I  loved  thee,  I  loved  thee,  universal  ruler, 
more  than  mine  own  soul,  because  thou  art 
mighty!  I  would  that  thou  shouldst  step  on  my 
body,  and  crush  me  under  thy  feet,  and  I  will  lick 
the  dust  from  thy  feet,  and  sing:  'Glory,  glory, 
glory  to  the  Son  of  the  Sun,  to  Julian,  king  of 
East  and  West !'" 

He  kissed  his  feet.  The  two  slaves  fell  on  their 
faces  to  the  ground,  repeating: 

"Glory,  glory,  glory!" 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  the  ships?"  muttered 
Julian,  deep  in  thought,  as  if  to  himself,  "to  leave 
them  without  a  guard,  as  a  prey  to  the  enemy,  or 
to  remain  with  them?" 

"Burn  them!"  whispered  Artabanes. 

Julian  shuddered,  and  looked  inquiringly  in  his 
face. 

"Burn  them? — what  do  you  say?" 

Artabanes  raised  his  head,  and  his  eyes  pierced 
the  eyes  of  the  emperor: 

"Thou  fearest,  thou?  No,  no,  men  are  afraid, 
but  not  gods!  Burn  them,  and  thou  shalt  be  free 
as  the  wind,  the  ships  will  not  fall  into  the  hands 
of  the  enemy,  and  thy  army  will  be  strengthened 
by  the  soldiers  withdrawn  from  the  fleet.  Be 
mighty  and  fearless  to  the  end!  Burn  them,  and 


404  Julian  the  Apostate. 

in  ten  days  thou  shalt  be  at  Ecbatana,  and  in 
twenty  Persia  shall  be  in  thy  hands!  Thou  shalt 
be  greater  than  Phillip's  son,  who  overcame 
Darius.  Only  burn  the  ships,  and  follow  me!  Or 
thou  darest  not?" 

"And  if  this  is  a  lie?"  If  I  read  in  thy  heart 
that  all  this  is  a  lie?"  exclaimed  the  emperor,  siez- 
ing  the  Persian  by  the  throat  with  one  hand,  and 
holding  his  short  sword  above  him  with  the  other. 

Hormisdas  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief. 

For  several  moments,  they  silently  looked  each 
other  in  the  eyes.  Artabanes  did  not  flinch  before 
the  emperor's  gaze.  Julian  felt  himself  once  more 
conquered  by  the  influence  of  those  bold  and  sup- 
plicating eyes. 

"Let  me  die,  let  me  die  by  thy  hand  if  thou 
believest  not!"  repeated  the  Persian. 

Julian  loosed  him,  and  returned  the  sword  to 
its  scabbard. 

"It  is  terrible  and  sweet  to  look  into  thine 
eyes!"  continued  Artabanes,  "for  thy  face  is  as  the 
face  of  a  god!  None  know  it  yet.  I  alone  know 
who  thou  art.  Cast  not  away  thy  slave,  oh  Lord!" 

"We  shall  see,"  said  Julian,  meditatively,  "I 
myself  have  long  wished  to  penetrate  the  desert, 
and  seek  battle  with  the  king.  But  the  ships — " 

"Oh  yes,  the  ships!"  broke  in  Artabanes,  "we 
must  depart  this  very  night,  before  the  dawn, 
while  it  is  yet  dark,  so  that  the  enemy  in  Ctesi- 
phon  may  not  know.  Wilt  thou  burn  them?" 

Julian  made  no  answer. 

"Take  him  away,"  commanded  the  emperor  to 
the  soldiers,  pointing  to  the  fugitive,  "and  guard 
him  carefully." 


How  the  Ships  Were  Burned.         405 

Returning  to  his  tent,  Julian  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment in  the  doorway  and  raised  his  eyes. 

"Can  it  be?  so  easy  and  so  soon?  I  feel  that  my 
will  is  like  the  will  of  the  gods!  I  have  not  time 
to  think,  and  it  is  already  accomplished." 

The  gladness  in  his  soul  grew  and  swelled  like 
a  storm.  With  a  smile,  he  pressed  his  hand  to  his 
heart,  so  strongly  was  it  beating.  The  chill  still 
ran  over  him,  and  his  head  ached  as  if  he  had 
spent  the  whole  day  in  too  strong  sunlight. 

Caesar,  calling  the  old  General  Victor  who  was 
blindly  and  boundlessly  devoted  to  him,  to  his 
tent,  gave  him  his  gold  ring  with  the  imperial 
seal. 

"To  the  commanders  of  the  fleet,  Constanti- 
nianus  and  Lucillianus,"  commanded  Julian,  "to 
burn  the  ships  before  dawn,  except  the  five  largest 
with  corn,  and  twenty  boats  for  temporary  bridges. 
They  are  to  be  taken.  The  rest  are  to  be  burned. 
Whoever  resists,  answers  with  his  head.  Keep  it 
all  secret.  Go!" 

He  gave  him  a  fragment  of  papyrus,  after 
quickly  writing  a  few  words  on  it, — a  laconic  order 
to  the  commanders  of  the  fleet. 

Victor,  as  was  his  wont,  showed  no  astonish- 
ment and  made  no  reply,  but  silently,  with  an 
expression  of  passive  obedience,  kissed  the  hem  of 
the  emperor's  robe,  and  went  forth  to  fulfil  his 
command. 

Julian  summoned  a  council  of  war  in  spite  of 
the  late  hour. 

The  generals  assembled  in  his  tent,  gloomy, 
secretly  irritated,  and  suspicious. 

In  a  few  words,  he  informed  them  of  his  plan  to 
go  to  the  north,  to  the  interior  of  Persia,  in  the 


406  Julian  the  Apostate. 

direction  of  Susa  and  Ecbatana,  so  as  to  take  the 
king  unawares. 

All  the  generals  arose  and  spoke  at  once,  hardly 
concealing  their  opinion  that  the  emperor's  plan 
was  madness.  On  the  stern  faces  of  these  wise  old 
men  who  were  inured  to  every  danger,  there  was 
an  expression  of  weariness,  dejection  and  sus- 
picion. Many  expressed  themselves  sharply. 

"Where  are  we  going?  What  do  you  want?" 
said  Sallustius  Secundus,  "bethink  yourself,  gra- 
cious Cassar.  We  have  conquered  half  Persia. 
Sapor  offers  you  such  conditions  of  peace  as  the 
kings  of  Asia  have  never  offered  to  a  Roman  con- 
queror, not  even  to  the  great  Pompey,  nor  to  Sep- 
timius  Severus,  nor  Trajan.  Let  us  make  a  glori- 
ous peace,  while  it  is  not  too  late,  and  return  to 
our  native  land." 

"The  soldiers  murmur,"  remarked  Dagalaiphus, 
"do  not  hring  them  to  despair.  They  are  weary. 
Many  are  wounded.  Many  are  sick.  If  you  lead 
them  further  into  the  unknown  desert,  we  can 
answer  for  nothing.  Have  pity  on  them!  And  it 
is  time  for  you  also  to  rest.  Perhaps  you  are  more 
tired  than  any  of  us." 

"Let  us  turn  back,"  they  all  cried;  "to  go  fur- 
ther is  madness!" 

At  that  moment,  an  indistinct  and  menacing 
murmur  was  heard  through  the  wall  of  the  tent, 
like  the  roar  of  distant  surge.  Julian  stopped  to 
listen,  then  immediately  understood  that  it  was  a 
mutiny. 

"You  know  my  will,"  he  said,  with  cold  haughti- 
ness, showing  the  generals  to  the  entrance  of  the 
tent.  "It  is  unchangeable.  I  need  nothing  more. 
In  two  hours  we  start.  See  that  all  is  ready." 


How  the  Ships  Were  Burned.         407 

"Blessed  Augustus,"  said  Sallustius  quietly  and 
respectfully,  but  with  a  slight  tremor  in  his  voice, 
"I  cannot  go  without  saying  what  I  have  to  say. 
You  have  spoken  to  us,  your  equals,  not  in  power, 
but  in  valor,  not  as  a  Roman,  nor  as  a  disciple  of 
Socrates  and  Plato.  We  can  justify  your  words 
only  by  a  momentary  irritation,  which  darkens 
your  godlike  reason." 

"What  then?"  said  Julian,  sneering,  and  paling 
with  hidden  wrath,  "the  worse  for  you,  my  friends! 
It  means  that  you  are  in  the  hands  of  a  madman. 
I  have  just  ordered  the  admirals  to  burn  the  ships, 
— and  my  command  is  being  carried  out.  I  fore- 
saw your  two  great  reasonableness,  and  cut  off  the 
last  pathway  for  retreat.  Yes,  your  lives  are  now 
in  my  hands,  and  I  shall  make  you  believe  in 
miracles!" 

All  were  struck  dumb.  Only  Sallustius  sprang 
toward  Julian,  and  caught  him  by  the  hand. 

"It  is  impossible,  Caesar.  You  could  notl-^-or  is 
it  true?" 

He  did  not  finish,  and  dropped  the  emperor's 
hand.  All  sprang  out  to  listen. 

The  cries  of  the  soldiers  beyond  the  canvas  wall 
grew  louder,  and  the  mutinous  uproar  came  closer, 
like  a  storm  passing  over  a  vast  forest. 

"Let  them  shout!"  said  Julian,  calmly,  "poor, 
foolish  children!  Where  could  they  go,  away  from 
me?  Listen!  That  is  why  I  burned  the  ships, — 
the  hope  of  the  cowards,  the  consolation  of  the 
indolent.  In  twenty  days  Asia  will  be  in  our 
hands.  I  have  surrounded  you  with  terror  and 
destruction,  that  you  may  conquer  all  and  become 
like  me.  Eejoice!  I  shall  lead  you  like  Dionysus, 


408  Julian  the  Apostate. 

through  the  whole  world,  and  you  will  conquer 
men  and  gods,  and  will  yourselves  be  as  gods!" 

He  had  hardly  pronounced  the  last  words,  when 
a  cry  of  despair  arose  throughout  the  whole  army: 

"The  ships  are  burning!  The  ships  are  burn- 
ing!" 

The  generals  ran  out  of  the  pavilion,  Julian  fol- 
lowed them.  They  saw  the  sky  all  red.  Victor 
had  faithfully  fulfilled  his  lord's  commands.  The 
fleet  was  in  flames.  The  emperor  watched  it  with 
a  strange  and  silent  smile. 

"Cassar!  May  the  gods  pardon  us, — he  has 
escaped!" 

With  these  words  one  of  the  centurions  threw 
himself  at  Julian's  feet,  pale  and  trembling. 

"Escaped?    Who?    What  do  you  say?" 

"Artabanes,  Artabanes!  Woe  unto  us.  He  has 
deceived  you,  Cassar!" 

"Impossible!  And  his  servants?"  stammered 
the  emperor,  hardly  audibly. 

"They  have  just  confessed  under  torture,"  con- 
tinued the  centurion,  "that  he  is  not  a  satrap,  but 
a  tax-collector  of  Ctesiphon.  He  invented  this 
ruse  to  save  the  city,  and  deliver  you  into  the 
hands  of  the  Persians  by  leading  you  into  the 
wilderness.  He  led  you  to  set  fire  to  the  ships. 
And  they  said  further  that  Sapor  was  approach- 
ing, with  a  great  army. 

The  emperor  hastened  to  the  river-bank,  to 
meet  General  Victor. 

"Quick,  quick,  extinguish  the  fires!" 

But  his  words  died  on  his  lips,  and  looking  at 
the  burning  fleet,  Julian  understood  that  his  com- 
mand was  folly,  and  that  no  human  power  could 


How  the  Ships  Were  Burned.         409 

stay  the  flames,  fanned  by  the  strong  gusts  of 
wind. 

He  seized  his  head  in  terror,  and  although  there 
was  neither  faith  nor  prayer  in  his  heart,  he  raised 
his  eyes  to  heaven,  as  if  seeking  something  there. 

The  pale  stars  hardly  shone  through  the  red- 
ness of  the  sky. 

The  army  grew  more  and  more  tumultuous. 

"The  Persians  set  fire  to  them  !"  cried  some, 
stretching  forth  their  hands  toward  the  blazing 
ships,  their  last  hope. 

"  It  was  not  the  Persians  but  the  generals  them- 
selves, to  draw  us  into  the  wilderness,  and  desert 
us,"  cried  others. 

"Beat  the  priests,  beat  the  priests  ! "  repeated 
others,  '  'the  priests  have  drugged  Caesar,  and  taken 
away  his  reason. ' ' 

" Glory  to  Augustus  Julian,  the  Conqueror," 
cried  the  faithful  Gauls  and  Kelts,  "be  silent, 
traitors  !  While  he  lives,  we  have  nothing  to 
fear." 

The  cowardly  wept : 

* '  Let  us  go  home !  We  will  go  no  further,  we  will 
not  go  into  the  wilderness.  We  will  not  take  a 
step  further ;  we  will  fall  by  the  way — better  slay 
us!" 

' '  We  shall  never  see  our  homes  again.  We  are 
lost,  brothers !  We  have  fallen  into  the  Persian's 
snare. ' ' 

"Can  you  not  see?"  triumphed  the  Galileans, 
"that  the  devils  have  gained  dominion  over  him  ! 
The  impious  Julian  has  sold  his  soul  to  them,  and 
they  are  carrying  it  to  destruction.  Whither  can 
a  madman  lead  us,  who  is  in  the  power  of  the 
devils?" 


4:10  Julian  the  Apostate. 

And  at  the  same  time  Caesar,  seeing  nothing  and 
hearing  nothing  as  if  in  delirium,  whispered  to 
himself,  with  a  wandering,  weak  and  vacant  smile: 

"It  is  all  the  same;  it  is  all  the  same!  the  mira- 
cle will  happen.  If  not  now,  then  later.  I  believe 
in  the  miracle." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 
ARSINOE'S  TEMPTATION. 

It  was  the  first  halt  on  the  retreat,  in  the  begin- 
ning of  June.  The  army  had  refused  to  go  fur- 
ther. 

The  prayers,  promises  and  threats  of  the  em- 
peror were  equally  in  vain.  Kelts,  Scythians,  Ko- 
mans,  Christians,  and  heathens,  brave  and  cow- 
ardly alike, — all  answered  him  with  the  cry: 
"Back,  back,  to  our  homes  again!" 

The  generals  were  full  of  secret  satisfaction. 
The  Tuscan  augurs  triumphed  openly. 

All  revolted  after  the  burning  of  the  ships. 

Not  only  the  Galileans,  but  the  worshippers  of 
the  Olympian  gods  also,  were  now  convinced  that 
over  the  emperor's  head  hung  a  curse,  that  the 
Furies  were  pursuing  him. 

When  he  entered  the  camp,  all  conversation 
ceased  and  all  made  way  for  him  fearfully. 

The  books  of  the  Sibyl  and  the  Apocalypse, 
Tuscan  augurs  and  Christian  seers,  gods  and  an- 
gels united  to  condemn  the  common  foe. 

Then  the  emperor  declared  that  he  would  lead 
them  homewards  through  the  province  of  Cordu- 
ene,  in  the  direction  of  the  fertile  Chiliocomus. 


Arsinoe's  Temptation.  411 

In  retreating  by  this  route,  he  at  least  retained 
some  hope  of  uniting  with  the  soldiers  of  Proco- 
pius  and  Sebastian. 

Julian  consoled  himself  with  the  thought  that 
he  had  not  yet  left  the  boundaries  of  Persia,  and 
consequently  might  meet  the  chief  forces  of  Sapor, 
and  achieve  such  a  victory  as  would  set  everything 
right. 

The  Persians  did  not  appear  again.  Wishing 
to  wear  out  the  Roman  army  before  making  a  final 
onslaught,  they  set  fire  to  the  rich  fields  with  their 
golden  barley  and  oats  already  ripe,  and  burnt  all 
the  dwelling-houses  and  granaries  in  the  villages. 

Julian's  soldiers  went  through  a  dead  desert, 
smelling  of  the  recent  conflagration.  A  famine 
began. 

To  increase  their  misfortunes,  the  Persians 
broke  down  the  banks  of  the  canals,  and  flooded 
the  burnt-up  fields.  The  springs  and  streams 
helped  them,  overflowing  their  banks  after  a  short 
but  rapid  melting  of  the  snows  on  the  peaks  of 
Armenia. 

The  water  dried  up  rapidly,  under  the  hot  June 
sun.  In  the  fields,  not  yet  cooled  after  the  fire, 
stood  pools  of  warm,  thick,  black  mud.  In  the 
evening,  there  arose  from  the  wet  wood  a  heavy 
exhalation,  a  horrible  smell  of  rottenness  mixed 
with  burning,  which  infected  everything,  the  air, 
the  water,  even  the  clothes  and  food  of  the  sol- 
diers. 

From  the  rotting  marshes  rose  myriads  of  in- 
sects, mosquitoes,  poisonous  gadflies,  flies  and 
gnats. 

They  settled  in  swarms  upon  the  baggage  ani- 
mals. They  fastened  on  the  dusty,  sweaty  skin  of 


412  Julian  the  Apostate. 

the  legionaries.  Their  sleepy  droning  resounded 
day  and  night.  Horses  went  mad;  oxen  broke 
forth  from  beneath  their  burdens  and  cast  their 
packs  on  the  ground. 

After  a  wearisome  march,  the  soldiers  could 
not  count  on  sleep.  There  was  no  escape  from  the 
insects,  even  in  the  tents.  They  made  their  way 
through  the  interstices.  The  soldiers  had  to  wrap 
themselves  up  in  their  hot  blankets,  covering  their 
heads  also,  to  get  any  sleep. 

From  the  bite  of  a  tiny  yellow-brown  fly,  came 
boils  and  blains,  which  first  itched,  then  ached, 
and  finally  turned  into  horrible  open  sores. 

For  several  days  the  sun  had  not  shone  out.  The 
sky  was  covered  with  an  even  pall  of  white,  hot 
clouds.  But  their  unmoving  light  was  even  more 
blinding  for  the  eyes  than  the  sun.  The  sky 
seemed  low,  flat  and  smothering,  like  the  hanging 
ceiling  in  a  hot  bath. 

Thus  they  went  on,  worn,  weak,  with  weary 
tread,  hanging  their  heads,  between  the  sky  im- 
placably lowering,  white  as  lime,  and  the  charred 
black  ground. 

It  seemed  to  them  that  Antichrist  himself,  a 
man  apostate  from  god,  had  led  them  deliberately 
into  this  cursed  place  to  destroy  them. 

Some  murmured,  accusing  their  leaders,  but  in- 
distinctly, as  in  delirium. 

Others  prayed  and  wept  quietly,  like  sick  chil- 
dren, asking  their  companions  for  a  piece  of  bread, 
a  mouthful  of  wine. 

Some  fell  by  the  way  from  weakness. 

The  emperor  gave  orders  to  distribute  to  the 
hungry  soldiers  the  last  food  supplies  which  were 
being  kept  for  himself  and  his  suite. 


Arsinoe's  Temptation.  413 

He  himself  ate  thin  flour  pottage,  with  a  small 
piece  of  lard,  food  such  as  the  not  very  particular 
soldiers  would  have  turned  away  from. 

Thanks  to  the  utmost  abstinence,  he  felt  a  rest- 
less excitement,  and  at  the  same  time  a  strange 
lightness  in  his  body,  as  if  he  had  wings.  It  sup- 
ported him  and  increased  his  powers  tenfold. 

He  tried  not  to  think  of  the  future.  To  return 
to  Antioch  or  Tarsus,  beaten,  a  mockery  and 
laughing-stock  for  the  Galileans, — he  knew  well 
that  he  could  not  endure  it,  if  he  were  to  accept 
this  thought  even  for  a  moment. 

That  night  the  soldiers  rested.  A  north  wind 
drove  away  the  insects.  The  oil,  wine  and  flour, 
given  out  from  the  emperor's  last  reserves,  some- 
what stayed  the  hunger  of  the  soldiers.  Hopes  of 
return  were  awakened  anew.  The  camp  sank  into 
a  deep  sleep. 

Julian  went  into  his  tent  alone. 

For  some  time  he  had  slept  as  little  as  possible, 
sinking  into  a  light  doze  only  when  morning  was 
at  hand.  If  he  slept  longer,  he  awoke  with  terror 
in  his  heart,  with  drops  of  cold  sweat  over  all  his 
body.  He  needed  the  power  of  consciousness  to, 
overcome  the  torments  that  gnawed  at  his  soul. 

Entering  his  pavilion,  he  snuffed  the  small 
bronze  lamp  hanging  in  the  middle  of  the  tent. 
Parchment  rolls  were  strewn  around,  part  of  his 
traveling  library,  the  Gospels  amongst  others.  He 
got  ready  to  write.  It  was  his  favorite  occupation 
at  night.  He  was  writing  his  philosophic  work: 
"Against  the  Galileans,"  begun  two  months  and  a 
half  ago,  when  he  was  setting  out  on  his  journey. 

Julian  read  over  his  manuscript,  lying  with  his 


414  Julian  the  Apostate. 

back  to  the  door  of  the  tent,  when  suddenly  he 
heard  a  rustle. 

He  turned,  uttered  an  exclamation,  and  leaped 
to  his  feet.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  saw  a  vision. 
In  the  doorway  was  standing  a  youth  in  a  dark 
brown  tunic  of  camel's  hair,  with  a  dusty  sheep- 
skin thrown  over  his  shoulder, — the  so-called  "me- 
lote"  of  the  Egyptian  hermits — with  bare  feet  and 
palm-leaf  sandals. 

The  emperor  looked  and  waited,  unable  to  utter 
a  word.  Silence  reigned,  such  deep  silence  as 
comes  only  in  the  depth  of  night. 

"Do  you  remember/'  said  a  familiar  voice,  "do 
you  remember,  Julian,  how  you  came  to  me  in  the 
monastery?  Then  I  drove  you  away,  but  I  could 
not  forget,  because  you  alone  were  ever  near  to 
me." 

The  youth  threw  the  dark  monastic  covering 
aside.  Julian  saw  golden  curls,  and  recognized 
Arsinoe. 

"Whence  and  how  did  you  come  hither?  Why 
are  you  dressed  thus?" 

He  still  feared  that  it  might  be  a  vision;  that 
she  might  disappear  unexpectedly,  as  she  had 
come. 

Arsinoe  told  him  in  a  few  words  what  had  be- 
fallen her  since  they  had  parted. 

Leaving  her  guardian  Hortensius,  and  distrib- 
uting nearly  all  her  possessions  to  the  poor,  she 
had  long  lived  among  the  Galilean  hermits,  to  the 
south  of  Lake  Mareotis,  among  the  barren  Libyan 
hills,  in  the  terrible  deserts  of  Mtria  and  Setia. 
The  youth  Juventinus,  the  pupil  of  blind  old 
Didymus,  accompanied  her.  They  visited  the  as- 
cetics. 


Arsinoe's  Temptation.  415 

"And  then? — "  asked  Julian,  not  without  a  se- 
cret dread,  "what  then,  girl?  did  you  find  what 
you  sought?" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  answered  sadly: 

"No;  only  glimpses,  only  hints  and  signs,  as 
everywhere." 

"Tell  me;  tell  me  all,"  the  emperor  pressed  her, 
and  his  eyes  gleamed  with  hope  and  gratitude. 

"Shall  I  be  able  to  tell  you?"  she  began,  slowly. 
"You  see,  my  friend,  I  was  seeking  spiritual  free- 
dom, but  it  does  not  exist  there." 

"Yes,  yes,  is  it  not  so?"  said  Julian  triumphant- 
ly; "I  told  you  it  was  so,  Arsinoe!  Do  you  re- 
member?" 

She  sat  down  on  a  stool  covered  with  a  leopard 
skin,  and  went  on  quietly,  with  the  same  sad  smile. 
He  caught  at  her  every  word  with  hungry  delight. 
********* 

"Tell  me  how  you  came  to  leave  the  wretches?" 
asked  Julian. 

"I  also  had  my  temptation,"  answered  Arsinoe; 
"once  in  the  desert  among  the  stones,  I  found  a 
fragment  of  pure  white  marble.  I  took  it  up  and 
admired  it  for  a  long  time,  watching  it  sparkle  in 
the  sun,  and  suddenly  I  remembered  Athens,  my 
youth,  art,  you, — I  seemed  to  awake.  Then  I 
immediately  determined  to  return,  to  live  and  die 
what  God  made  me, — an  artist.  At  that  time  the 
old  man  Didymus  dreamed  a  prophetic  dream, — 
that  I  had  reconciled  you  with  the  Galilean." 

"With  the  Galilean?"  cried  the  emperor,  and  his 
face  immediately  clouded  over,  his  eyes  grew  dark, 
and  the  triumphant  smile  died  away  from  his  lips. 

"Curiosity  brought  me  to  you,"  continued  Ar- 
sinoe,— "I  wished  to  know  if  you  had  attained 


416  Julian  the  Apostate. 

truth  along  your  path,  and  what  you  had  reached. 
Disguised  as  a  monk,  I  set  out  with  brother  Juven- 
tinus,  to  Alexandria  along  the  Nile,  by  ship  to  Se- 
leucian  Antioch,with  a  great  Syrian  caravan  across 
Apamea,  Epiphania,  and  Edessa  to  the  frontier. 
Through  many  dangers  and  difficulties,  we  passed 
through  the  desert  of  Mesopotamia,  deserted  by 
the  Persians.  Not  far  from  the  village  of  Abusata, 
after  the  victory  at  Ctesiphon,  we  came  in  sight 
of  you  camp.  And  here  I  am.  And  you,  Julian?" 

He  sighed.  His  head  fell  on  his  breast,  and  he 
answered  nothing. 

Afterwards,  looking  at  her  from  under  his 
brows  with  a  quick  supplicating  and  suspicious 
glance,  he  asked: 

"And  now  you  hate  Him,  Arsinoe?" 

"No:  why  should  I?"  she  answered  softly  and 
simply.  "Why  should  I  hate  Him?  Did  not  the 
sages  of  Greece  come  close  to  what  the  Galilean 
said?  They  who  mortify  their  bodies  and  souls  in 
the  wilderness,  are  far  from  Mary's  gentle  Son. 
He  loved  children  and  liberty  and  the  joys  of  fes- 
tivals, and  sumptuous  white  lilies.  He  loved 
beauty,  Julian!  Only  we  have  departed  from 
Him  and  have  wandered  and  darkened  our  souls. 
They  all  call  you  the  Apostate.  But  they  them- 
selves are  Apostates." 

The  emperor  knelt  before  her,  raising  his  eyes 
full  of  entreaty.  Tears  shone  in  them  and  trickled 
slowly  down  his  emaciated  cheeks: 

"Do  not!  do  not!"  he  whispered, — "do  not  say 
it!  What  use  is  it?  Leave  me  with  what  I  have 
already!  Do  not  become  my  enemy  anew!" 

"No!  no!"  she  exclaimed,  with  irresistible  force, 
"I  must  tell  you  all.  Listen!  I  know  that  you 


Arsinoe's  Temptation.  417 

love  Him!  Be  silent!  it  is  so, — in  this  is  your 
curse!  Whom  have  you  risen  against?  In  what 
sense  are  you  His  enemy?  When  you  fight  against 
His  name,  you  are  nearer  His  spirit  than  they  who 
with  dead  lips  repeat:  "Lord,  Lord!"  They  are 
your  enemies,  not  He.  When  your  lips  curse  the 
Crucified  One,  your  heart  is  thirsting  for  Him. 
Why  do  you  torture  yourself  more  than  the  Gali- 
lean monks?" 

The  emperor  tore  himself  from  her  embrace, 
and  sprang  up  white  as  death.  His  face  was  dis- 
torted, his  eyes  flashed  with  a  strange  hatred.  He 
whispered  with  trembling  lips,  with  a  smile  of 
pain,  pride  and  anger: 

"Away,  away!  depart  from  me!  I  know  this 
Galilean  guile!" 

Arsinoe  gazed  at  him  in  terror  and  despair,  as 
at  a  maniac: 

"Julian,  Julian!  What  is  it?  Is  it  possible  that 
only  for  a  name — ?" 

But  he  had  already  regained  command  over 
himself. 

His  eyes  grew  calm,  his  face  became  indifferent, 
almost  contemptuous.  The  Roman  Emperor  spoke 
to  the  Galilean  woman: 

"Away,  Arsinoe!  Forget  all  that  I  have  said. 
It  was  a  moment  of  weakness.  It  has  passed.  I 
am  calm.  You  see  that  we  are  still  strangers  to 
each  other.  The  shadow  of  the  Crucified  is  be- 
tween us.  You  have  not  renounced  Him.  Who  is 
not  His  enemy,  cannot  be  my  friend." 

She  fell  on  her  knees  before  him: 

"Why?  why?  what  are  you  doing?  Have  pity 
on  yourself,  while  it  is  not  too  late!  This  is  mad- 
ness! Recover  yourself,  or  else — " 


418  Julian  the  Apostate. 

She  did  not  finish  speaking.  But  he  concluded 
for  her,  with  a  haughty  smile: 

"You  would  say,  Arsinoe,  that  I  shall  perish? 
So  be  it!  I  shall  follow  out  my  path  to  the  end, 
whithersoever  it  may  lead  me.  If,  as  you  say,  I 
was  wrong  and  unjust  to  the  wisdom  of  the  Gali- 
leans, remember  what  I  endured  from  them,  how 
innumerable,  how  contemptible,  were  my  enemies! 
Listen!  Once  in  my  presence  the  Roman  soldiers 
found  a  lion  in  the  marshes  of  Mesopotamia,  per- 
secuted by  poisonous  flies.  They  flew  into  his 
mouth,  his  ears,  his  nostrils,  and  would  not  let  him 
breathe;  they  darkened  his  shining  eyes,  and  the 
lion's  might  was  slowly  overcome  by  their  stings. 
Such  will  be  my  death!  Such  the  victory  of  the 
Galileans  over  the  Roman  Caesar!" 

The  girl  still  stretched  forth  her  white  hands  to 
him  from  the  gloom,  without  words,  without  hope, 
like  a  friend  to  a  friend  that  is  dead.  But  be- 
tween them  was  a  gulf,  such  as  the  living  pass  not 

over. 

********* 

On  the  twentieth  of  July,  the  Roman  army, 
after  a  long  march  through  the  burned-up  plains, - 
found  in  the  deep  valley  of  the  river  Dura,  a  little 
grass  that  had  escaped  the  fire.  The  legionaries 
were  unspeakably  delighted,  lying  down  and 
breathing  the  damp  smell  of  the  earth,  and  press- 
ing the  lush,  cool  grass  to  their  inflamed  eyelids 
and  dusty  faces. 

There  was  a  field  of  ripe  wheat  at  hand.  The 
soldiers  gathered  the  ears.  Three  days  they  rested 
in  the  sheltering  valley  of  the  Dura. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fourth,  the  Roman  sen- 
tries noticed  a  cloud,  like  smoke  or  dust  on  the 


The  Last  Battle.  410 

neighboring  hills.  Some  thought  that  it  was  a 
herd  of  wild  asses,  gathered  together  to  protect 
themselves  from  the  attacks  of  lions;  others 
thought  that  it  was  the  Saracens,  attracted  by  ru- 
mors of  the  siege  of  Ctesiphon;  while  others  feared 
that  it  was  the  main  army  of  King  Sapor  himself. 

The  emperor  commanded  to  sound  the  trumpet. 

The  cohorts,  in  close  defensive  order,  a  great 
regular  circle,  protected  by  their  shields,  closed 
up  and  forming  an  unbroken  wall  of  bronze,  took 
up  their  position  on  the  bank  of  the  stream. 

The  curtain  of  smoke  or  dust  remained  on  the 
horizon  until  evening,  and  no  one  could  guess 
what  was  hidden  behind  it. 

The  night  was  dark  and  silent.  Not  a  star 
shone  in  the  sky. 

The  Romans  did  not  sleep.  They  stood  round 
their  blazing  camp-fires,  and  awaited  the  morning, 
in  silent  uncertainty. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
THE  LAST  BATTLE. 

At  sunrise,  they  saw  the  Persians.  The  enemy 
moved  slowly  forward.  On  the  estimation  of  ex- 
perienced warriors,  there  were  not  less  than  two 
hundred  thousand  of  them.  New  and  ever  new 
ranks  kept  appearing  from  behind  the  hills. 

The  flashing  of  their  armor  was  so  bright  that 
even  through  the  thick  dust,  the  soldiers'  eyes 
could  hardly  endure  it. 

The  Romans  silently  left  their  camp  in  tha 
valley  and  drew  up  in  battle  array. 


420  Julian  the  Apostate. 

Their  faces  were  stern  but  not  downcast. 

Danger  put  an  end  to  hostility.  All  eyes  were 
again  turned  to  the  emperor.  Galileans  and 
heathens  alike  tried  to  guess  from  the  expression 
of  his  face  what  were  their  hopes  of  victory. 

Cesar's  face  shone  with  gladness.  He  waited 
for  the  attack  of  the  Persians  as  for  a  miracle, 
knowing  that  victory  would  set  all  right,  and  give 
him  such  honor  and  power  that  the  Galileans  could 
not  withstand  him. 

Danger  gave  him  wings.  A  strange,  joyful  fire 
gleamed  in  his  eyes. 

He  was  beautiful  as  a  hero  of  old  Hellas. 

The  close  dusty  morning  of  the  22d  of  July 
foretold  a  hot  day. 

The  emperor  was  unwilling  to  load  himself  with 
the  heavy  bronze  armor.  He  remained  in  a  light 
silken  tunic. 

The  general  Victor  came  up  to  him,  holding  a 
breastplate  in  his  hand. 

"Cassar,  I  have  dreamed  an  evil  dream.  Do  not 
tempt  fate,  but  put  on  your  armor!" 

Julian  silently  pushed  it  aside  with  his  hand. 

The  old  man  knelt  down,  holding  up  the  light 
armor: 

"Put  it  on!  Have  pity  on  your  slave!  The 
battle  will  be  dangerous." 

Julian  took  the  round  shield,  threw  the  flowing 
purple  over  his  shoulder,  and  leaped  on  his  horse: 

"Let  me  alone,  old  man!    I  do  not  need  it." 

And  he  set  forth,  his  Boeotian  helmet  shining 
in  the  sunlight,  with  its  tall  crest  of  gold. 

Victor  looked  after  him,  anxiously  shaking  his 
head. 

The  Persians  were  approaching.    There  was  no 


The  Last  Battle.  421 

time  to  lose.  Julian  drew  up  the  army  in  the 
order,  "lunare  acie,  sinuatis  lateribus,"  in  the  form 
of  a  bent  crescent.  The  huge  half  moon  was  to 
plunge  its  two  horns  into  the  Persian  multitude, 
and  lay  hold  on  it  on  both  sides.  On  the  right 
wing,  Dagalaiphus  commanded;  on  the  left,  Hor- 
misdas,  and  in  the  center  Julian  and  Victor. 

The  trumpets  sounded. 

The  earth  swayed  and  rumbled  under  the  soft, 
heavy  tread  of  the  charging  Persian  elephants. 
Ostrich  feathers  waved  on  their  broad  foreheads. 
Towers  were  fastened  on  their  backs,  with  leather 
thongs.  From  each  of  them  four  arches  dis- 
charged their  phalarici, — missiles  of  burning 
pitch  and  tow. 

The  Eoman  cavalry  did  not  withstand  their 
first  onslaught.  With  deafening  roars  from  their 
trunks,  the  elephants  opened  their  fleshy,  damp 
mouths,  so  that  the  soldiers  could  feel  in  their 
faces  the  breath  of  the  monsters  maddened  with 
a  mixture  of  wine,  pepper  and  valerian, — a  special 
stimulant  which  the  barbarians  intoxicated  them 
with  before  battle.  Their  tusks  reddened  with 
cinnabar  and  lengthened  with  steel  points,  ripped 
open  the  bellies  of  the  horses.  Their  trunks 
caught  the  riders,  and  lifting  them  into  the  air, 
hurled  them  on  the  ground. 

In  the  midday  heat  a  piercing  and  acrid  smell 
of  sweat  came  from  these  grey,  swaying  giants, 
with  flapping  folds  of  skin.  The  horses  shivered,, 
snorted  and  stamped  when  they  caught  the  smell 
of  the  elephants. 

One  cohort  had  already  taken  to  flight. 

It  was  the  Christians. 

Julian  hastened  to  stop  the  fugitives,  and  strik- 


422  Julian  the  Apostate. 

ing  the  chief  decurion  in  the  face  with  his  hand, 
he  cried  out  angrily: 

"Cowards!  you  only  know  how  to  pray!" 

The  Thracian  light-armed  archers  and  Paphla- 
gonian  slingers  went  forward  against  the  ele- 
phants. 

Behind  them  went  the  skilled  Illyrian  javelin 
throwers  with  weapons  filled  with  lead,  the  "mar- 
tiobarbuli." 

Julian  gave  orders  to  aim  their  arrows  at  the 
legs  of  the  monsters,  as  also  stones  and  the  leaden 
javelins.  One  arrow  struck  a  huge  Indian  ele- 
phant in  the  eye.  He  bellowed,  and  reared  on  his 
haunches.  The  thongs  burst.  The  saddle  with 
the  leather  tower  fell  over  and  crashed  to  the 
ground,  the  Persian  archers  falling  out  of  it  like 
young  birds  from  a  nest.  Confusion  broke  out 
among  the  ranks  of  elephants.  Wounded  in  the 
legs,  they  fell  down,  and  soon  a  moving  mountain 
of  fallen  beasts  was  heaped  up  round  them.  Feet 
lifted  in  the  air,  bloody  trunks,  broken  tusks,  up- 
turned towers,  half-crushed  horses,  wounded  and 
dead,  Persians  and  Romans,  all  were  mingled 
together. 

Finally  the  elephants  took  to  flight,  rushing 
among  the  Persians  and  trampling  them  under 
foot. 

This  danger  was  foreseen  in  the  tactics  of  the 
barbarians.  The  example  of  the  fight  at  Nisiba 
had  shown  that  an  army  might  be  thrown  into 
confusion  by  the  broken  ranks  of  its  own  ele- 
phants. 

Then  the  Vogatai,  with  long  sickle-shaped 
knives  tied  to  their  right  hands,  began  to  strike 
at  the  monsters  with  all  their  might  between  two 


The  Last  Battle.  423 

joints  of  the  spinal  column  close  to  the  skull.  One 
blow  was  enough  to  strike  the  strongest  and  big- 
gest of  them  dead. 

The  cohorts  of  martiobarbuli  threw  themselves 
forward,  slipping  between  the  bodies  of  the 
wounded,  and  following  up  the  fugitives. 

At  that  time  the  emperor  was  hurrying  to  the 
assistance  of  the  left  wing. 

The  Persian  clibanarii  were  advancing  at  this 
point, — a  famous  body  of  horsemen,  fastened  to- 
gether by  huge  chains  of  bronze  and  covered  from 
head  to  foot  with  thick  chain  mail,  impenetrable, 
almost  invulnerable  in  battle,  like  statues  cast  in 
bronze.  They  could  only  be  wounded  through 
the  narrow  openings  of  their  visors,  left  for  their 
eyes  and  mouths. 

Against  the  clibanarii,  he  directed  the  cohorts 
of  his  old  faithful  friends,  the  Batavians  and  Celts. 
They  died  for  a  smile  of  the  Caesar,  watching  him 
with  childlike,  passionate  eyes. 

On  the  right  wing,  the  Roman  cohorts  were  cut 
into  by  the  Persian  chariots  yoked  with  striped, 
thin-legged  zebras.  Sharp-edged  scythes  fastened 
to  the  axles  and  spokes  of  the  wheels,  turning 
with  frightful  rapidity,  cut  off  the  legs  of  the 
horses  and  the  heads  of  the  soldiers  at  a  single 
blow,  and  mowed  their  bodies  down  as  easily  as 
the  scythe  of  the  reaper  cuts  a  swathe  through  the 
soft  stems  of  grain. 

After  midday,  the  clibanarii  grew  faint;  their 
armor  stuck  to  them  and  burned  them. 

Julian  directed  all  his  forces  against  them. 

They  wavered  and  broke  in  disorder,  and  the 
emperor  uttered  a  cry  of  triumph. 

He  threw  himsolf  forward,  pursuing  the  fugi- 


424  Julian  the  Apostate. 

tives,  not  noticing  that  the  soldiers  had  fallen 
behind  him. 

A  few  body-guards  accompanied  Julian, 
amongst  the  number  the  General  Victor.  The 
old  man,  though  wounded  in  the  arm,  felt  no  pain. 
Not  for  a  moment  did  he  leave  the  emperor,  sav- 
ing him  from  mortal  danger,  covering  him  with 
his  long  shield,  sharp-pointed  below. 

The  skilful  general  knew  that  to  follow  close 
after  a  fleeing  army  is  as  unwise  as  to  approach 
a  falling  building. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Caesar?"  he  cried  to 
Julian,  "take  care!  Take  my  armor!" 

Julian  flew  forward  unheeding,  with  arms  up- 
lifted, with  bare  breast,  as  though  he  alone,  with- 
out his  army,  and  by  the  terror  of  his  counte- 
nance and  his  uplifted  hands,  would  put  to  flight 
the  innumerable  foe. 

A  joyful  smile  played  on  his  lips,  his  Boeotian 
helmet  shone  through  the  clouds  of  dust  raised  by 
the  wind,  and  the  folds  of  his  cloak,  floating  in  the 
breeze,  were  like  two  gigantic  purple  wings  which 
carried  the  emperor  ever  farther  and  farther  on- 
ward. 

The  division  of  the  Saracens  was  fleeing  in  front 
of  him.  One  of  their  horsemen  turned,  recog- 
nized Julian  by  his  dress,  and  shouted  to  his  com- 
panions, with  a  wild  guttural  cry,  like  the  shriek 
of  an  eagle: 

"Malek!  Malek!"— "the  king!  the  king!" 

They  all  turned  back.  Without  stopping  their 
horses,  they  leaped  to  the  ground,  in  their  long, 
white  cloaks,  with  spears  raised  above  their  heads. 

The  emperor  saw  a  wild,  dusky  face.  He  was 
almost  a  boy.  He  was  riding  on  the  hump  of  a 


The  Last  Battle.  425 

huge  Bactrian  camel,  with  lumps  of  dry  dirt  stick- 
ing to  its  belly  and  hanging  from  its  rough  hair. 

Victor  turned  two  Saracen  spears  aside  with  his 
shield,  guarding  the  life  of  the  emperor. 

Then  the  boy  on  the  camel  aimed,  and  flashing 
his  wild  eyes,  and  savagely  gnashing  his  teeth, 
cried  out  in  triumph: 

"Malek!    Malek!" 

"How  full  of  joy  he  looks,"  thought  Julian, 
"and  I  even  more." 

He  had  not  time  to  finish  his  thought. 

The  spear  whistled  throng  the  air,  struck  him 
on  the  right  arm,  slightly  scratched  his  skin, 
slipped  between  His  ribs,  and  buried  itself  in  his 
side. 

He  thought  that  the  wound  was  not  severe,  and 
caught  the  two-edged  spear-head  to  draw  it  out, 
but  cut  his  hand.  The  blood  gushed  forth. 

Julian  cried  out  aloud,  throwing  back  his  head, 
and  with  wide  open  eyes  looking  into  the  pale 
blue  sky,  fell  from  his  horse  into  the  arms  of  his 
body-guard. 

Victor  supported  him  reverently  and  gently. 
The  old  man's  lips  trembled  and  with  eyes  dim 
with  sorrow  he  looked  at  the  veiled  eyes  of  his 
commander. 

The  belated  cohort  overtook  them. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  DEATH  OF  JULIAN.; 

They  carried  Caesar  to  his  tent,  and  laid  him  on 
a  camp-bed.  He  did  not  return  to  consciousness, 
but  groaned  from  time  to  time. 

The  physician  Oribasius  drew  the  sharp  blade 
from  the  wound,  examined  it,  and  washed  and 
bandaged  it. 

After  the  bandaging  was  complete,  Julian 
sighed  deeply  and  opened  his  eyes. 

"Where  am  I?"  he  looked  round  wondering,  as 
if  awaking  from  deep  sleep. 

From  afar  the  sound  of  the  battle  came.  He 
remembered  all,  and  rose  from  his  couch  with  a 
great  effort. 

"Why  did  you  carry  me  away?  Where  is  my 
horse?  Quick,  Victor!" 

Suddenly  his  face  was  drawn  with  pain.  All 
sprang  forward,  to  support  Cassar.  He  pushed 
Victor  and  Oribasius  aside. 

"Leave  me!    I  must  be  with  them  till  the  end!" 

And  he  rose  slowly  to  his  feet.  There  was  a 
smile  on  his  pale  lips,  and  his  eyes  shone: 

"You  see,  I  still  can — Quick,  my  shield,  my 
sword,  my  horse!" 

His  soul  fought  against  death.  Victor  gave  him 
the  shield  and  sword. 

Julian  took  them,  and  staggering  like  a  child, 
who  had  not  learned  to  walk,  made  two  steps  for- 
ward. 

•    426 


The  Death  of  Julian.  427 

His  wound  opened.  He  dropped  his  weapons, 
and  fell  into  the  arms  of  Oribasius  and  Victor,  and 
opening  his  eyes  with  a  smile  of  quiet  contempt, 
he  exclaimed: 

"It  is  finished!  Thou  hast  conquered,  Gali- 
lean!" 

And  resisting  no  longer  he  yielded  himself  up 
to  those  who  surrounded  him.  They  laid  him  on 
the  hed. 

"Yes,  it  is  finished,  friends!"  he  repeated  in  a 
low  voice.  "I  am  dying." 

Oribasius  bent  over  him,  trying  to  soothe  him, 
and  assuring  him  that  wounds  like  his  could  be 
healed. 

"Do  not  deceive  me!"  said  Julian,  briefly,  "to 
what  end?  I  am  not  afraid." 

Then  he  added  triumphantly: 

"I  shall  die  the  death  of  the  wise." 

Toward  evening  be  became  unconscious. 

Hour  after  hour  passed. 

The  sun  set.  The  battle  ceased.  They  lit  a 
lamp  in  the  tent.  Night  came  on. 

He  did  not  return  to  consciousness.  His  breath- 
ing grew  weaker.  They  thought  that  he  was 
dying.  At  last  he  slowly  opened  his  eyes.  His 
steady,  unmoving  gaze  was  strained  toward  a 
corner  of  the  tent.  A  quick,  weak  whisper  broke 
from  his  lips.  He  was  delirious. 

"You? — Here? — Why?  No  matter,  it  is  fin- 
ished. Can  you  not  see?  Go!  You  hated  laugh- 
ter. That  is  what  we  cannot  forgive." 

Then  he  came  to  himself  for  a  little  while,  and 
asked  Oribasius: 

"What  hour  is  it?    Shall  I  see  the  sun?" 


428  Julian  the  Apostate. 

And  meditating,  he  added,  with  a  mournful 
smile: 

"Oribasius,  is  the  reason  so  weak?  I  know  it  is 
bodily  weakness.  The  blood  fills  the  brain  and 
gives  birth  to  visions.  It  must  be  conquered.  The 
reason  must — " 

His  thoughts  grew  once  more  confused.  His 
gaze  became  fixed. 

"I  will  not.  Do  you  hear?  Depart,  Deluder! 
I  do  not  believe.  Socrates  died  like  a  god.  The 
reason  must — Victor!  Victor!  What  do  you  want 
with  me,  merciless  one?  Your  love  is  more  ter- 
rible than  death.  Your  yoke  is  a  heavy  yoke. 
Why  do  you  watch  me  like  that?  How  I  loved 
you,  Good  Shepherd,  you  alone.  No,  no!  Pierced 
feet?  Blood?  The  death  of  Hellas?  Darkness. 
I  want  the  sun,  the  golden  sun,  on  the  marble  of 
the  Parthenon!  Why  did  you  quench  the  sun- 
light?" 

The  dark,  quiet  hour  after  midnight  came. 

The  legions  returned  to  the  camp.  Their  vic- 
tory gave  them  no  joy.  In  spite  of  their  weari- 
ness, almost  no  one  slept.  They  were  waiting  for 
news  from  the  emperor's  tent.  Many  standing 
beside  the  waning  camp  fires  were  drowsy  from 
weakness,  and  leaned  heavily  upon  their  long 
spears. 

The  heavy  breathing  of  the  shackled  horses  was 
audible,  as  they  munched  their  oats. 

White  stripes  began  to  show  on  the  horizon, 
between  the  dark  tents.  The  stars  grew  distant 
and  cold.  The  air  grew  damp.  The  spears  and 
shields  began  to  be  covered  with  a  grey  layer  of 
dew,  like  cobwebs.  The  cocks  of  the  Tuscan 
augurs  began  to  crow;  the  wise  birds  had  not  been 


The  Death  of  Julian.  421) 

drowned,  in  spite  of  the  emperor's  command.  A 
soft  sadness  was  over  heaven  and  earth.  All 
things  seemed  transparent;  the  near  seemed  far; 
the  far,  near.  Round  the  doorway  of  Cesar's 
camp  gathered  his  friends,  the  generals,  and  his 
suite.  In  the  twilight,  they  seemed  to  each  otHer 
like  pale  shadows. 

A  still  more  solemn  silence  reigned  inside  the 
pavilion.  "\Vith  a  monotonous  sound,  the  physi- 
cian Oribasius  stirred  some  medicinal  herbs  in  a 
bronze  basin,  to  prepare  a  cooling  drink. 

The  sick  man  grew  quiet.  His  delirium  left 
him. 

At  the  dawn,  he  returned  to  consciousness  for 
the  last  time,  and  asked  impatiently: 

"When  will  the  sun  come?" 

"In  an  hour,"  answered  Oribasius,  glancing  at 
the  level  of  the  water  in  the  glass  walls  of  the 
clepsydra, 

"Summon  the  generals!"  commanded  Julian, 
"I  must  speak." 

"Gracious  Caesar,"  observed  the  physician,  "will 
it  not  injure  you?" 

"It  is  all  one.  I  shall  not  die  before  the  sun- 
rise. Victor,  raise  my  head  higher.  So!  Good!" 

They  told  him  of  the  victory  over  the  Persians, 
of  the  flight  of  Meranee,  the  leader  of  the  enemy's 
cavalry  with  the  king's  two  sons,  of  the  destruc- 
tion of  fifty  satraps.  Julian  showed  neither  sur- 
prise nor  pleasure.  His  face  became  indifferent. 

His  closest  friends  entered:  Dagalaiphus,  Hor- 
misdas,  Nevitta,  Arintheus,  Lucillianus,  and  Sal- 
lustius,  the  prefect  of  the  East.  In  front  of  them 
came  Jovian.  Many,  making  suggestions  for  the 
future,  expressed  a  wish  to  see  this  weak,  timid 


430  Julian  the  Apostate. 

man  on  the  throne,  because  he  would  be  danger- 
ous to  no  one.  They  hoped  to  rest  under  him, 
after  the  turmoils  of  a  stormy  reign.  Jovian  had 
the  art  of  pleasing  everybody.  He  was  tall  and 
well-favored,  with  an  insignificant  face,  easily  lost 
in  the  crowd.  He  had  a  well-meaning  and  insig- 
nificant soul. 

Here  also  among  the  emperor's  suite,  was  a 
young  centurion  of  the  household  shield-bearers, 
the  future  historian,  Ammianus  Marceliinus. 
Everyone  knew  that  he  was  keeping  a  diary  of 
the  campaign  and.  collecting  materials  for  an  ex- 
tensive historical  work.  On  entering  the  pavilion, 
Ammianus  drew  forth  his  wax  tablets  and  bronze 
stylus.  He  was  preparing  to  write  down  the  em- 
peror's dying  speech.  On  his  manly  face  there 
was  a  deep,  impassive  curiosity,  as  in  the  face  of 
an  artist,  or  man  of  science. 

"Baise  the  curtain,"  commanded  Julian. 

They  drew  back  the  hangings  in  the  doorway. 
All  stepped  back.  The  coldness  of  the  morning 
blew  in  the  dying  man's  face.  The  door  opened 
toward  the  east.  Not  far  off  was  a  declivity. 
Nothing  interrupted  the  horizon. 

On  the  rim  of  the  sky,  Julian  saw  the  white 
clouds,  still  cold  and  transparent  as  ice.  He 
sighed,  and  then  spoke: 

"So!    Good!    Put  the  lamp  out." 

They  extinguished  the  lamp.  Twilight  filled 
the  tent. 

All  waited  in  silence. 

"Hear,  my  friends!"  Julian  began  his  last 
speech.  He  spoke  low,  but  clearly;  his  face  was 
calm.  It  wore  an  expression  of  the  triumph  of 
reason.  Invincible  will  shone  in  his  eyes. 


The  Death  of  Julian.  431 

Ammiamis  Marcellinus  began  to  write.  His 
hand  trembled.  He  knew  that  he  was  writing  on 
the  tablets  of  history,  recording  the  last  words  of 
a  mighty  emperor  for  future  generations: 

"Hear,  my  friends,  my  hour  has  come,  perhaps 
too  soon,  but  you  see  that  I  rejoice,  like  an  honest 
debtor  repaying  my  life  to  Nature,  and  there  is 
neither  sorrow  nor  fear  in  my  soul,  but  only  the 
quiet  gladness  of  the  wise,  the  foretaste  of  ever- 
lasting rest.  I  have  fulfilled  my  duty,  and  recall- 
ing the  past,  I  repent  of  nothing.  In  the  days 
when,  persecuted  by  all  men,  I  expected  death  in 
the  desert  of  Cappadocia,  in  the  castle  of  Macel- 
lum,  and  afterward,  at  the  summit  of  my  power, 
I  have  kept  my  soul  unspotted,  striving  after  the 
highest  goal.  If  I  have  not  accomplished  all  that 
I  desired,  remember  that  earthly  things  are  in  the 
hands  of  Fate.  And  now  I  bless  the  Everlasting, 
that  He  has  given  me  to  die,  not  from  a  lingering 
illness,  nor  at  the  hand  of  an  executioner,  or  an 
assassin,  but  on  the  field  of  battle,  in  the  flower 
of  my  youth,  in  the  midst  of  great  achievements. 


"And  now,  beloved,  tell  my  enemies  and  friends 
how  the  Hellenes  die,  through  the  power  of  god- 
like wisdom." 

He  ceased  speaking.    All  knelt. 

Many  wept. 

"Why  do  you  weep?"  asked  Julian,  with  a 
smile.  "It  is  unseemly  to  weep  for  one  who  is 
going  home.  Victor,  be  consoled." 

The  old  man  tried  to  answer  but  could  not,  and 
covering  his  face  with  his  hands,  he  wept  aloud. 


432  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"Hush,  hush!"  said  Julian,  turning  his  gaze  to 
the  distant  sky;  "the  sun!" 

The  clouds  lit  up.  The  twilight  in  the  tent 
grew  yellow  and  warm.  The  first  ray  of  the  sun 
flashed  up.  The  dying  man  turned  his  face  to- 
ward it. 

Then  Sallustius  Secundus  the  Prefect  of  the 
East,  approaching,  kissed  Julian's  hand: 

"Blessed  Caesar,  whom  will  you  appoint  as  your 
successor?" 

"It  matters  not,"  answered  Julian,  "Fate  will 
decide.  It  is  useless  to  resist.  Let  the  Galileans 
triumph.  We  shall  conquer  in  the  end.  There 
will  be  a  kingdom  of  godlike  men  upon  the  earth, 
ever  full  of  laughter  like  the  sun!  The  sun!  Be- 
hold the  sun!" 

A  faint  shudder  ran  through  his  body,  and  with 
a  last  effort  he  raised  his  hands  as  though  to  go 
forth  to  meet  the  sunrise.  The  dark  blood  gushed 
from  his  wound.  The  veins  stood  out  on  his  neck 
and  temples. 

"Give  me  water,"  he  Avhispered,  dying. 

Victor  raised  a  deep  drinking  cup  to  his  lips,  a 
shining  vessel  of  gold  full  of  fresh  spring  water 
to  the  brim.  Julian  watched  the  sun,  and  slowly 
and  with  eager  draughts  he  drank  the  water, 
transparent  and  cold  as  ice. 

Then  his  head  fell  backward,  and  from  his  half- 
open  lips  came  a  last  sigh,  a  last  whisper: 

"Rejoice,  death  is  like  the  sun.  0  Helios! 
Take  me.  I  am  as  thou  art." 

His  eyes  grew  dim.    Victor  closed  his  lids. 

The  emperor's  face  in  the  sunlight  was  like  the 
face  of  a  sleeping  Olympian  god. 


CHAPTER  XX. 
INNOXIA  AND  MICA  AUREA. 

Three  months  had  passed  since  the  Emperor 
Jovian  concluded  his  shameful  treaty  with  the 
Persians. 

TheEoman  army  had  returned  to  Antioch  at  the 
beginning  of  October,  worn  out  with  hunger  and 
endless  marches  through  burning  Mesopotamia. 

On  the  march,  Anatolius,  tribune  of  the  ehield- 
bearers,  had  made  friends  with  the  young  historian 
Ammianus  Marcellinus.  The  two  friends  decided 
to  go  to  Italy,  to  a  quiet  villa  near  Baiae  whither 
Arsinoe  had  invited  them,  to  rest  from  the  fatigues 
of  their  journey,  and  to  be  cured  of  their  wounds 
by  the  sulphur  baths. 

On  the  way,  they  stopped  a  few  days  at  Antioch. 

Every  one  was  looking  forward  to  a  splendid 
festival  in  honor  of  Jovian's  accession  to  the 
throne,  and  the  return  of  the  army.  The  peace 
concluded  with  King  Sapor  was  disgraceful  to  the 
empire;  five  rich  Roman  provinces  across  the  Ti- 
gris, including  Corduene  and  Regimene,  fif- 
teen forts  on  the  frontier,  the  cities  of  Singara, 
Castra-Maurorum,  and  the  old  inaccessible  fort- 
ress of  Niziba,  which  had  withstood  three  assaults 
of  the  Persians,  passed  into  Sapor's  hands. 

But  the  Galileans  were  not  concerned  at  the 
downfall  of  Rome. 

When  the  news  of  the  Apostate  Emperor's  death 
was  brought  to  Antioch,  the  frightened  citizens  at 

433 


434:  Julian  the  Apostate. 

first  refused  to  believe  it,  fearing  that  it  was  a  wile 
of  Satan,  a  new  net  to  catch  the  feet  of  the  just, 
but  at  last  they  believed  it,  and  went  mad  with  joy. 

Early  in  the  morning,  the  noise  of  festivities 
and  the  cries  of  the  people  began  to  pierce  through 
the  closely  fastened  shutters  into  Anatolius'  sleep- 
ing chamber.  He  awoke,  and  decided  to  pass  the 
day  at  home.  The  exultation  of  the  multitude 
disgusted  him. 

He  tried  to  go  to  sleep  again,  but  could  not;  a 
strange  curiosity  got  the  better  of  him;  he  dressed 
rapidly,  and  went  out  to  the  street,  without  saying 
anything  to  Ammianus. 

It  was  a  southern  autumn  morning,  fresh  but 
not  cold.  Great  round  clouds  in  the  dark  blue 
sky  blended  with  the  white  marble  of  Antioch's 
endless  colonnades  and  porticos.  Fountains  mur- 
mured at  the  street-corners,  and  in  the  market- 
places and  forums.  Along  the  sunny,  dusty  vistas 
of  the  streets,  the  city  aqueducts  were  seen  sprink- 
ling their  nets  of  crystal  drops.  Pigeons  were 
cooing  and  picking  up  grains  of  barley.  There 
was  a  smell  of  flowers,  of  incense  from  the  open 
church-doors,  and  of  wet  dust.  Dusky  girls  were 
laughing,  sprinkling  baskets  of  pale  October  roses 
at  the  transparent  basins,  and  then  weaving  them 
in  garlands  around  the  columns  of  the  Christian 
basilicas,  singing  joyful  psalms  the  while. 

The  crowd  filled  the  street  with  incessant  talk 
and  noise.  The  chariots  and  litters,  the  pride  of 
the  city  council  of  decurions,  moved  along  the 
splendid  pavement  of  Antioch  in  slow  procession. 

Triumphant  cries  were  heard: 

"Long  live  Jovian  Augustus,  blessed  and 
mighty!" 


•   Innoxia  and  Mica  Aurea.  435- 

Others  added:  "the  conqueror!"  but  hesita- 
tingly, because  the  title  of  "conqueror"  looked  too 
like  irony. 

The  street  boy  who  had  once  drawn  charcoal 
caricatures  of  Julian  on  the  walls,  now  clapped  his 
hands,,  whistled  and  jumped  about,  playing  in  the 
dust  like  a  sparrow,  and  crying  out  in  a  piercing 
voice: 

"He  is  dead,  the  wild  boar  is  dead  who  laid 
waste  the  garden  of  the  Lord." 

He  repeated  these  words  after  his  elders;  they 
seemed  the  more  offensive  to  him,  because  he  did 
not  understand  what  they  meant. 

An  old  hag  in  tatters,  who  lived  in  a  foul  quar- 
ter, in  a  damp  cellar,  also  crawled  forth  into  the 
sunlight,  like  a  wood-louse,  to  enjoy  the  festival. 
She  brandished  her  stick,  and  cried  in  a  trembling 
voice: 

"Julian  is  dead!    The  Beast  is  dead!" 

The  joy  of  the  festival  was  also  reflected  in  the 
wide-open  wondering  eyes  of  an  infant  in  the  arms 
of  a  dusky  work-woman  from  the  factory  of  purple 
dye.  His  mother  had  given  him  a  honey-cake. 
Watching  the  many-colored  garments  in  the  sun,, 
he  stretched  out  his  hands  in  delight,  and  sud- 
denly turned  his  plump,  dirty  face,  smeared  with 
honey,  and  laughed  cunningly,  as  if  he  knew  per- 
fectly well  what  it  was  all  about,  but  would  not 
tell.  And  his  mother  proudly  thought  to  herself 
that  her  wise  boy  was  pleased  at  the  festival  for 
the  death  of  the  Apostate. 

An  endless  sadness  filled  Anatolius'  heart. 

But  he  went  onwards,  overcome  by  a  strange 
curiosity. 

He  approached  the  cathedral,  on  the  street  of 


436  Julian  the  Apostate. 

Singon.  There  was  a  dense  throng  on  the  sun-lit 
porch.  He  saw  the  well-known  face  of  Marcus 
Ausonius,  the  questor,  leaving  the  basilica  accom- 
panied by  two  slaves,  who  pushed  a  way  for  him 
through  the  crowd  with  their  elbows. 

"What  is  this?"  thought  Anatolius  in  wonder, 
"what  has  this  detester  of  the  Galileans  been  doing 
in  the  church?" 

Ausonius'  violet-colored  cloak  was  adorned  with 
crosses  embroidered  in  gold,  and  there  were  even 
crosses  on  the  toes  of  his  crimson  leather  slippers. 

Jimius  Mauricus,  another  acquaintance  of  Ana- 
tolius, came  up  to  Marcus  Ausonius: 

"How  is  your  health,  worthy  sir?"  asked  Jimius, 
feigning  comic  wonder,  as  he  examined  the  offi- 
cial's new  Galilean  decorations. 

Junius  was  free,  and  possessed  an  independent 
fortune,  so  that  he  had  nothing  in  particular  to 
gain  by  embracing  Christianity.  He  was  not  the 
least  surprised  when  his  official  friendo  went  over 
to  the  church  in  a  body,  but  he  took  a  special 
pleasure  in  mocking  them  every  time  he  met  them, 
questioning  them,  and  playing  the  part  of  a  deeply 
offended  friend  who  hid  his  sorrow  under  a  mask 
of  forced  irony. 

The  crowd  passed  hastily  through  the  church 
door.  The  porch  rapidly  emptied.  Anatolius 
stood  behind  a  column,  listening  to  their  dialogue: 

"Why  did  you  not  wait  till  the  end  of  the  ser- 
vice?" asked  Mauricus. 

"Palpitations.  It  was  so  close.  What  can  I  do, 
I  am  not  used  to  it." 

And  he  added  thoughtfully: 

"That  young  preacher's  style  is  something  ex- 
traordinary, all  the  same.  His  exaggerations  get 


limoxia  and  Alica  Aurea.  437 

on  my  nerves.  As  if  a  piece  of  iron  was  scraping 
across  glass.  A  strange  style." 

"Truly,  this  is  touching,"  cried  Junius  delight- 
edly, "here  is  a  man  who  has  been  unfaithful  to 
everything, — except  good  style." 

"No,  no,  perhaps  I  have  not  yet  caught  the 
taste,"  Ausonius  interrupted  him  hurriedly,  "please 
do  not  think  that  I  am  insincere,  Mauricus." 

The  vast  fat  body  of  the  questor  Gargilianus 
came  slowly  forth  from  a  deep,  soft  litter,  with 
groans  and  sighs: 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  late, — never  mind,  I  can 
stand  in  the  porch  a  while;  God  is  a  spirit,  inhab- 
iting—" 

"A  miracle!"  laughed  Junius,  "texts  of  Holy 
Writ  on  the  lips  of  Gargilianus!" 

"Christ  forgive  you,  my  son,"  answered  Gargili- 
anus, unabashed,  "what  are  you  always  sneering 
and  mocking  about?" 

"I  am  trying  to  count  up — how  many  conver- 
sions— how  many  perversions.  I  always  thought 
that  your  convictions  at  least — ' 

"What  nonsense,  my  dear!  I  have  only  one  con- 
viction, that  the  Galilean  cooks  are  just  as  good  as 
the  Hellenic.  And  their  fast-day  dishes  are  excel- 
lent. Come  to  supper  with  me,  philosopher.  1  will 
soon  convert  you  to  my  faith.  You  will  lick  your 
fingers.  After  all,  is  not  all  the  same,  my  friends, 
whether  you  eat  a  good  dinner  in  honor  of  Mer- 
cury the  god,  or  Mercury  the  saint?  Mere  preju- 
dice! What  is  the  harm  in  a  pretty  little  thing 
like  this?" 

And  he  pointed  to  a  simple  amber  cross,  hang- 
ing among  the  scented  folds  of  rich  amethyst-col- 
ored purple  which  covered  his  portly  paunch. 


438  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"Look,  look,  there  is  Hecebolus,  the  archpriest 
of  Astarte  Dindymene, — the  repentant  hierophant 
in  the  black  robe  of  a  Galilean.  Oh  why  art  thou 
not  here,  poet  of  the  Metamorphoses!"  cried  Ju- 
nius  Mauricus,  pointing  to  a  dignified  old  man, 
grey-haired,  with  a  serene  tranquillity  in  his  pleas- 
ant pink  face,  who  was  seated  in  a  half-open  litter. 

"What  is  he  reading?" 

"Not  the  laws  of  the  goddess  Astarte!" 

"What  humility  and  sanctity!  He  is  thin  from 
fasting.  Look  how  he  casts  down  his  eyes,  and 
sighs!" 

"Have  you  heard  how  he  was  converted?"  asked 
the  questor,  with  a  gay  smile. 

He  probably  went  and  fell  at  Jovian's  feet,  as 
he  did  at  Julian's." 

"Oh  no,  he  has  a  new  fashion  for  everything. 
It  was  quite  unexpected.  A  public  repentance! 
He  lay  on  the  ground  at  the  door  of  one  of  the 
basilicas,  when  Jovian  was -coming  out,  amongst  a 
crowd  of  people,  and  cried  in  a  loud  voice:  'Tram- 
ple me  under  foot;  trample  the  salt  that  has  lost 
its  savor!'  And  he  wept,  and  kissed  the  feet  of 
the  passers-by." 

"Yes,  that  was  certainly  something  new.  And 
was  it  a  success?" 

"I  should  think  so!  They  say  he  had  a  private 
conference  with  the  emperor.  Oh,  people  like  that 
will  neither  burn  nor  drown.  Everything  turns 
their  way.  They  put  off  their  old  skins,  and  look 
all  the  younger.  Learn  from  them,  my  children." 

"But  what  could  he  have  to  say  to  the  em- 
peror?" 

"'Oh,  many  things,"  answered  Gargilianus,  not 
without  secret  envy,  "for  example,  he  might  have 


Innoxia  and  Mica  Aurea.  439 

whispered  to  him:  'Hold  firmly  to  Christianity, 
and  there  will  not  be  a  heathen  left  in  the  world; 
the  true  faith  will  be  the  strength  of  your  throne/ 
The  way  is  straight  before  us,  now;  far  better  than 
in  Julian's  times." 

"Oh,  oh,  oh,  my  benefactors!  help  me,  defend 
me!  Save  the  humble  slave  Sicumbricus  from  the 
lion's  claws!" 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Gargilianus  of  a 
bow-legged,  consumptive  shoemaker,  with  a  good- 
natured,  absent-minded  expression,  and  disheveled 
grey  locks.  Roman  spearsmen  were  dragging  him 
away  to  prison. 

"They  are  taking  me  to  jail!" 

"What  for?" 

"For  robbing  a  church." 

"What?  did  you?" 

"No,  no,  I  was  only  in  the  crowd,  and  cried  out: 
'Strike!'  once  or  twice,  perhaps.  That  was  in  Au- 
gustus Julian's  time.  People  said  that  the  Caesar 
would  be  pleased  if  we  wrecked  the  Galilean 
churches.  And  so  we  wrecked  them.  And  now 
some  evil-minded  people  have  reported  that  I  car- 
ried away  a  silver  sacramental  fan  under  my  cloak. 
And  I  was  not  even  in  the  church.  I  only  cried 
out:  'Strike!'  once  or  twice,  in  the  street.  I  am  a 
peaceful  man.  I  have  a  poor  little  shop,  in  a  popu- 
lous quarter,  and  if  there  is  a  disturbance,  the  peo- 
ple will  certainly  rob  it.  Do  you  think  I  did  it  for 
myself?  What  had  I  to  gain?  Oh,  fathers,  pro- 
tect me!" 

"Are  you  a  Christian  or  a  heathen?"  asked  Ju- 
nius. 

"I  don't  know,  benefactors;  I  don't  know  my- 
self. Till  the  Emperor  Constantine's  time,  I 


440  Julian  the  Apostate. 

brought  offerings  to  the  gods.  Then  they  baptized 
me.  Then  came  the  Arian  trouble,  under  Oon- 
stantius.  I  became  an  Arian.  Then  the  Hellenes 
came  into  power.  So  I  became  a  Hellene.  And 
now  I  have  gone  back  to  the  beginning  again.  I 
want  to  repent,  and  return  to  the  Arian  church. 
But  I  do  not  want  to  make  any  mistakes.  I  knock- 
ed down  the  idolatrous  shrine;  then  I  set  it  up 
again;  and  then  I  knocked  it  down  once  more. 
Everything  is  in  confusion.  I  don't  know  myself 
what  I  am,  and  what  has  happened  to  me.  I  am 
faithful  to  the  powers  that  be,  but  I  cannot  find 
the  truth  at  all.  I  miss  every  time.  I  am  either 
too  soon,  or  too  late.  The  only  thing  I  see  is,  that 
there  is  no  rest  for  me, — or  was  I  born  to  this  fate? 
They  beat  me  for  Christ's  sake,  and  then  they  beat 
me  for  the  gods'.  I  am  afraid  for  my  children.  Oh, 
protect  me,  benefactors,  set  the  humble  slave 
Sicumbricus  free!" 

"Don't  fear,  good  friend,"  said  Gargilianus,  with 
a  smile,  "we  will  set  you  free.  We  will  see  about 
your  case.  You  made  me  a  nice  pair  of  shoes,  with 
a  creak  in  them." 

Sicumbricus  fell  on  his  knees,  stretching  forth 
his  manacled  hands  hopefully. 

Growing  a  little  calmer,  he  looked  shyly  at  his 
protectors,  and  asked: 

"And  how  about  religion  now,  my  masters?  Am 
I  to  repent  and  hold  fast  till  the  end?  There  will 
be  no  more  changes?  I  am  afraid,  if  they  change 
again — " 

"No,  no,"  laughed  Gargilianus,  "make  your 
mind  easy.  It  is  all  over.  They  won't  change  any 
more." 

Anatolius  entered  the  churcb,  unobserved  by 


Innoxia  and  Mica  Aurea.  441 

the  rest.  He  wished  to  hear  the  famous  young 
preacher,  Theodorit. 

The  oblique  rays  of  the  sun  trembled  in  bluish 
sheaves  on  the  surging  waves  of  incense,  as  they 
pierced  through  the  narrow  upper  window  of  the 
vast  cupola,  like  a  golden  sky,  the  symbol  of  the 
world-conquering  Universal  Church. 

One  ray  fell  on  the  fiery-red  beard  of  the 
preacher,  who  stood  on  the  high  ambo.  He  raised 
his  pale  thin  hands,  transparent  as  wax,  in  the 
sunlight.  His  eyes  burned  with  triumph.  His 
voice  thundered,  filling  the  vast  crowd  with  emo- 
tion, and  rising  to  heaven  in  a  cry  of  revenge: 

"As  on  a  tablet  of  shame,  I  will  write  for  pos- 
terity the  story  of  the  evil-doer,  the  Apostate  Ju- 
lian. And  let  all  ages  and  all  peoples  read  what  I 
have  written;  and  let  them  tremble  before  the  just 
wrath  of  God.  Come  hither,  torturer!  Come 
hither,  crafty  serpent!  Let  us  now  upbraid  thee, 
let  us  unite  in  spirit  and  cry  out,  let  us 
sound  the  timbrels  and  sing  the  song  of  vic- 
tory, the  song  of  Mariam  in  Israel,  at  the  drown- 
ing of  the  Egyptians  in  the  Red  Sea.  And  let  the 
deserts  rejoice  and  blossom  forth  like  the  lily,  and 
let  the  church,  which  yesterday  was  widowed  and 
orphaned  in  the  sight  of  all,  rejoice  and  be  exceed- 
ing glad.  Behold,  from  joy  I  am  as  one  drunken 
with  wine,  and  mad.  But  what  voice,  what  gift  of 
words  can  express  that  miracle?  Where  are  thy 
sacrifices,  thy  offerings  and  mysteries?  Where  are 
the  curses  and  omens  of  thy  augurs?  Where  is  thy 
art  of  soothsaying  from  the  entrails  of  living  men? 
Where  is  the  glory  of  Babylon?  Where  are  the 
Medes  and  Persians?  Where  are  the  gods  who 
guarded  thee,  and  whom  thou  gnardest?  Where 


442  Julian  the  Apostate. 

are  thy  protectors,  Julian?  All  is  vanished,  all  is 
scattered  and  melted  away!" 

"Oh  pet,  what  a  beard!"  a  withered  and  pow- 
dered dame  standing  near  Anatolius  muttered  to 
her  companion;  "look,  look,  it  is  all  gold." 

"Yes,  but  his  teeth — "  said  her  companion 
doubtfully. 

"What  does  it  matter  about  his  teeth,  when  he 
is  so  handsome?" 

"Oh,  no,  no,  Veronica,  how  can  you  say  so?  His 
teeth  matter  too.  Can  you  compare  the  brother  of 
Theophanus — " 

Theodorit  thundered: 

"Behold  how  the  Lord  has  broken  the  sinews  of 
the  evil-doer!  In  vain  has  Julian  gathered  malice, 
as  wild  beasts  gather  poison.  God  waited  until 
Julian  had  put  forth  all  the  foulness  that  was  in 
him,  like  some  unclean  sore — ' 

"We  must  take  care  not  to  be  late  for  the  cir- 
cus," whispered  a  workman  near  Anatolius,  speak- 
ing in  his  companion's  ear,  "they  say  there  are  she- 
bears  from  Britain." 

"What?  is  it  possible?  she-bears?" 

"Yes,  it  is  quite  true!  One  of  them  is  called 
Mica  Aurea, — Golden  Crumb,  and  the  other  is 
called  Innoxia, — Innocence.  They  feed  them  on 
human  flesh.  And  there  are  gladiators,  too." 

"Lord  Jesus,  are  there  gladiators?  we  must  take 
care  not  to  be  late.  We  need  not  wait  till  the  end 
— let  us  slip  out  quick,  brother,  or  all  the  places 
will  be  taken." 

Now  Theodorit  began  to  praise  Julian's  prede- 
cessor Constantius,  as  a  Christian  benefactor,  as  a 
man  of  pure  life,  a  lover  of  his  kindred. 

Anatolius  felt  faint  in  the  crowd.    He  left  the 


Innoxia  and  Mica  Aurea.  443 

church,  glad  to  breathe  the  fresh  air,  that  smelt 
neither  of  incense  nor  lamp-smoke,  and  look  at  the 
blue  sky,  no  longer  hidden  by  the  golden  cupola. 

In  the  porch,  people  were  talking  loudly,  with 
little  reverence  for  the  consecrated  building.  Im- 
portant news  had  spread  through  the  crowd.  The 
two  bears  were  to  be  brought  past  immediately  in 
iron  cages,  on  their  way  to  the  amphitheatre. 
When  they  heard  the  news,  the  people  began  to 
stream  out  of  the  church  with  preoccupied,  eager 
faces,  not  waiting  for  the  end  of  the  service. 

"What?  Where?  we  are  not  late?  is  it  true 
that  Golden  Crumb  is  sick?" 

"Nonsense.  Innocence  had  stomach-ache  dur- 
ing the  night.  She  ate  too  much.  It  is  all  right 
again  now.  They  are  both  in  good  form." 

"Glory  to  God!    Glory  to  God!" 

However  sweet  the  eloquence  of  Theodorit,  it 
could  not  rival  the  charm  of  the  gladiatorial  shows 
and  British  bears. 

The  church  began  to  grow  empty.  Anatolius 
saw  the  people  running  breathlessly  from  all  the 
corners  of  the  city,  and  from  the  deserted  basilicas 
towards  the  circus.  They  knocked  each  other 
clown,  scolded  and  shouted  at  each  other,  crushed 
children,  ran  over  fallen  women,  lost  their  sandals, 
and  passed  on.  Their  red,  sweaty  faces  were  as 
full  of  the  fear  of  being  late  as  if  life  had  been  at 
stake. 

And  two  names  passed  tenderly  from  mouth  to 
mouth,  like  sweet  promises  of  unknown  joys: 

"Golden  Crumb,  Innocence, — Mica  Aurea,  In- 
noxia." 

Anatolius  followed  the  crowd  to  the  amphithea- 
tre. 


444  Julian  the  Apostate. 

According  to  the  Koman  custom,  the  velarium, 
sprinkled  with  perfumes,  protected  the  people 
from  the  sun,  and  filled  the  amphitheatre  with  a 
cool,  red  twilight.  The  many-headed  crowd  was 
already  surging  over  the  circular  ranges  of  seats. 

Before  the  games  began,  the  chief  officials  of 
Antioch  brought  a  bronze  statue  of  the  Emperor 
Jovian  to  the  imperial  lodge,  that  the  people 
might  behold  the  likeness  of  their  new  ruler.  In  his 
right  hand,  the  emperor  held  a  globe,  surmounted 
by  a  cross.  A  blinding  ray  of  sunlight  pierced  be- 
tween the  purple  strips  of  the  velarium,  and  fell 
on  the  statue.  His  face  lit  up,  and  the  crowd 
looked  at  the  shining  head,  with  its  self-satisfied 
smile.  The  officials  kissed  the.  feet  of  the  image. 
The  mob  cried  out  with  joy: 

"Glory,  glory  to  the  savior  of  his  country,  to 
Augustus  Jovian!  Julian  has  perished,  the  wild 
boar  is  punished,  who  laid  waste  the  garden  of  the 
Lord!" 

Innumerable  hands  waved  colored  handker- 
chiefs and  scarves  in  the  air. 

The  mob  greeted  Jovian,  as  their  image,  their 
own  spirit,  their  reflection,  ruling  over  the  world. 
Tears  of  gladness  shone  in  many  eyes. 

Mocking  at  the  dead  emperor,  the  mob  address- 
ed him  as  if  he  was  present  in  the  amphitheatre, 
and  could  hear: 

"Well,  philosopher?  The  wisdom  of  Plato  and 
Chrysippus  did  not  help  you,  nor  the  Thunderer, 
nor  PhoBbus  the  Far-darter  protect  you!  You 
have  fallen  into  the  devil's  claws,  and  they  will 
tear  you  to  pieces,  Apostate!  Where  are  your 
prophecies,  foolish  Maximus?  Christ  and  His 


Innoxia  and  Mica  Aurea.  445 

God  have  conquered;  we,  the  lowly,  have  con- 
quered!" 

All  believed  that  Julian  had  fallen  by  the  hands 
of  the  Galileans,  and  thanked  God  for  that  "saving 
blow/'  and  sang  the  praises  of  the  regicide. 

And  when  they  saw  the  dusky  bodies  of  the 
gladiators  under  the  claws  of  Golden  Crumb  and 
Innocence,  the  crowd  was  overcome  by  fury.  Their 
eyes  were  opened  wide,  and  they  had  never  enough 
of  the  sight  of  blood.  The  crowd  answered  the 
roar  of  the  wild  beasts  with  a  still  more  savage 
human  roar.  They  sang  praises  to  God,  as  if  it 
was  only  now  that  they  beheld  the  full  triumph  of 
the  faith: 

"Glory  to  the  emperor,  the  noble  Jovian!  Christ 
has  conquered,  Christ  has  conquered!" 

Anatolius  turned  in  disgust  from  the  foul  at- 
mosphere of  the  mob,  the  smell  of  the  human  herd. 
Half-closing  his  eyes,  trying  not  to  breathe,  he 
fled  to  the  street,  and,  returning  home,  fastened 
his  door,  closed  the  shutters  tight,  threw  himself 
on  the  bed,  and  lay  motionless  till  late  in  the  even- 
ing. 

But  even  here,  there  was  no  escape  from  the 
multitude. 

As  soon  as  it  grew  dark,  all  Antioch  was  lit  up 
with  fires.  At  the  corners  of  the  basilicas  and  the 
lofty  pediments  af  the  government  buildings,  myr- 
iads of  lamps  smoked,  flickering  in  the  wind,  and 
torches  flared  in  the  streets.  And  the  ruddy  glow 
of  the  fires  penetrated  Anatolius'  room,  through 
the  interstices  of  the  shutters,  with  an  ill-smelling 
odor  of  burning  pitch  and  tallow.  The  drunken 
songs  of  legionaries  and  sailors  were  heard  from 
the  neighboring  taverns,  and  the  laughter,  cries, 


446  Julian  the  Apostate. 

and  abusive  voices  of  women  of  the  streets,  and 
above  all,  like  the  sound  of  many  waters,  rose  un- 
ceasing praises  of  Jovian  the  Savior,  and  curses  at 
Julian  the  Apostate. 

Anatolius,  raising  his  hands  to  the  sky,  ex- 
claimed with  bitter  mockery: 

"Thou  hast  conquered  indeed,  Galilean!" 


CHAPTER  XXI. 
CONCLUSION. 

A  great  merchant  trireme,  with  soft  Asian  car- 
pets and  vases  of  olive  oil,  was  voyaging  from  An- 
tiochian  Seleucia  to  Italy.  Through  the  islands  of 
the  JEgean  Archipelago  it  sailed  towards  Crete, 
where  it  was  to  take  on  board  a  cargo  of  wool,  and 
drop  several  monks,  bound  for  a  solitary  retreat 
beside  the  sea  shore.  The  elders,  who  kept  to  the 
fore  part  of  the  ship,  passed  the  day  in  pious  con- 
versations, prayers,  and  the  customary  occupation 
of  the  monasteries,  weaving  baskets  of  palm- 
leaves. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  ship,  at  the  poop, 
crowned  with  an  image  of  Athene  Tritonides 
carved  of  oak,  under  a  light  awning  of  violet-col- 
ored cloth,  to  temper  the  sun's  rays,  were  gathered 
other  travelers,  with  whom,  as  being  heathens,  the 
monks  had  no  intercourse.  They  were  Anatolius, 
Ammianus  Marcellinus,  and  Arsinoe. 

Tt  was  a  calm  evening.  The  rowers,  Alexan- 
drian galley-slave?  with  shaven  heads,  slowly 
dipped  and  raised  their  long  bending  oars,  singing 
a  melancholy  song. 


Conclusion.  447 

The  sun  hid  behind  the  clouds. 

Anatolius  watched  the  waves,  remembering  the 
poet's  phrase:  "the  much-laughing  sea."  After  the 
stir,  heat  and  dust  of  the  streets  of  Antioch,  after 
the  ill-smelling  atmosphere  of  the  mob,  and  the 
smoke  of  the  festival  lamps,  he  breathed  freely, 
repeating: 

"Oh  much-laughing  sea,  take  me,  and  wash  my  soul !" 

Callimnos,  Amorgos,  Astyphalsea,  Thera,  floated 
past  them,  one  after  another,  like  dream-islands, 
now  rising  above  the  sea,  now  disappearing  again, 
like  the  daughters  of  the  ocean  dancing  their  ever- 
lasting dance.  It  seemed  to  Anatolius  that  the 
days  of  the  Odyssey  had  not  yet  vanished  here. 

His  fellow-travelers  did  not  disturb  his  silent 
reveries.  Each  of  them  was  absorbed  in  his  own 
occupations.  Ammianus  Marcellinus  was  arrang- 
ing his  notes  of  the  Persian  expedition  and  the  life 
of  Julian,  and  in  the  evening,  as  a  relaxation,  he 
read  the  famous  work  of  the  Christian  teacher, 
Clement  of  Alexandria,  entitled  "Stromata,"  the 
"Variegated  Carpet." 

Arsinoe  was  making  wax  models  for  a  large 
statue. 

It  was  a  naked,  "beautiful  body,  an  Olympian 
god,  with  a  face  full  of  an  expression  of  unearthly 
melancholy.  Anatolius  wished  to  ask  her  who  it 
was,  Dionysus  or  Christ,  but  could  not  make  up 
his  mind  to  ask. 

The  sculptress  had  long  laid  aside  her  monastic 
garments.  The  pious  turned  away  from  her  in 
horror,  calling  her  an  apostate.  But  the  glorious 
name  of  her  ancestors,  and  the  memory  of  the 
great  treasures  with  which  she  had  formerly  en- 


448  Julian  the  Apostate. 

riched  many  Christian  monasteries,  saved  her  from 
open  persecution. 

She  still  retained  a  moderate  fortune  from  her 
former  wealth, — enough  to  ensure  her  a  life  of 
independence. 

She  still  had  a  little  estate  on  the  shore  of  the 
Bay  of  Naples,  not  far  from  Baias,  and  the  villa  in 
which  Myra's  last  days  had  been  spent. 

Here  Arsinoe,  Ammianus,  and  Anatolius  had 
decided  to  rest  after  the  stormy  years  which  they 
had  just  passed  through,  in  perfect  quiet,  in  ser- 
vice of  the  Muses. 

The  former  nun  now  wore  almost  the  same  cos- 
tume as  before  she  had  taken  the  veil.  The  simple, 
noble  folds  of  the  peplum  once  more  made  her  re- 
semble an  Athenian  girl  of  the  olden  days.  But 
her  garment  was  of  dark  stuff,  and  her  pale  gold 
curls  just  flashed  from  under  a  dark  hood  which 
covered  her  head.  There  was  a  stern  and  almost 
severe  wisdom  in  her  brilliant  black  eyes,  that 
never  laughed.  Only  the  arms  of  the  artist,  bare 
to  the  shoulders,  shone  white  from  under  the  folds 
of  the  peplum,  while  she  worked  impatiently,  al- 
most angrily,  pressing  and  moulding  the  soft  wax. 
Anatolius  felt  the  daring  force,  of  those  white,  im- 
petuous arms. 

On  that  quiet  evening,  the  ship  was  passing  a 
small  island. 

None  of  them  knew  its  name.  From  a  distance, 
it  seemed  a  barren  cliff.  But  to  escape  the  hidden 
reefs,  the  ship  had  to  put  in  close  to  the  land: 
here,  round  the  precipitous  cliff,  were  such  trans- 
parent depths  that  they  could  see  silvery-white 
patches  of  sand  at  the  bottom,  alternating  with 
Tblack  tufts  of  sea-weed. 


Conclusion.  449 

Beyond  the  dark  cliffs,  green  meadows  appeared. 
Sheep  were  grazing  in  them.  On  the  head  of  the 
cape  grew  a  plane-tree. 

Anatolius  noticed  a  boy  and  a  girl  beside  its 
mossy  roots.  They  were  probably  the  children  of 
poor  shepherds.  Beyond  them,  in  a  cypress  grove, 
gleamed  a  white  marble  statue  of  goat-footed  Pan, 
with  a  nine-stemmed  pipe. 

Anatolius  turned  towards  Arsinoe,  to  draw  her 
attention  to  that  quiet  corner  of  lingering  Hellas. 
But  the  words  died  away  on  his  lips. 

The  artist  was  gazing  fixedly  at  her  creation, 
with  a  smile  of  strange  mirth,  looking  at  the  wax 
statue,  the  ambiguous  and  fascinating  image,  with 
its  beautiful  Olympian  body,  and  the  unearthly 
sadness  in  its  face. 

A  feeling  of  oppression  filled  Anatolius'  heart. 
He  asked  Arsinoe  passionately,  almost  angrily, 
pointing  to  the  statue: 

"What  is  it?  what  are  you  representing?" 

Slowly,  as  if  by  an  effort,  she  raised  her  eyes: 
"The  Sibyl  should  have  such  eyes,"  he  thought  to 
himself. 

"Arsinoe,  do  you  think  people  will  understand 
you?"  asked  Anatolius. 

"Is  it  not  all  the  same?"  she  answered  quietly, 
with  a  sad  smile. 

And  after  a  silence  she  added,  in  a  still  lower 
voice,  as  if  speaking  to  herself: 

"He  will  stretch  forth  his  hands  to  the  world. 
He  must  be  implacable  and  terrible,  like  Mithra- 
Dionysus  in  his  beauty  and  strength,  pitiful  and 
gentle." 

"What  are  you  saying,  Arsinoe?  What  a  con- 
tradiction! How  can  that  be?" 


450  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"Who  knows?  For  us  it  is  impossible,  but  in 
the  future — " 

The  sun  sank  lower. 

A  cloud  lay  beneath  it  on  the  horizon,  waiting. 
Its  last  rays  lit  up  the  island  with  a  melancholy 
tenderness.  The  shepherd  and  the  girl  approached 
the  altar  of  Pan,  to  perform  the  evening  oblation. 

"Do  you  think,  Arsinoe,"  continued  Anatolius, 
"that  unseen  brothers  will  take  up  the  thread  of 
our  lives,  where  we  drop  it,  and  carry  it  on  still 
further?  Do  you  hope  that  all  will  not  perish  in 
that  barbarous  darkness  that  is  descending  over 
Borne  and  Hellas?  If  that  were  so,  if  we  could 
know  that  in  the  future — " 

"Yes,  yes,"  exclaimed  Arsinoe,  and  her  stern, 
dark  eyes  glowed  with  prophetic  fire,  "the  future  is 
in  us,  in  our  unreasoning  sadness.  Julian  was 
right.  We  must  work  on  to  the  end,  without  glory, 
in  silence,  estranged  from  all,  and  alone.  We  must 
hide  the  last  spark  of  fire  in  the  ashes  of  the  dying 
altars,  that  future  peoples  and  nations  may  be 
able  to  kindle  the  flame  once  more.  They  will 
begin  where  we  end.  Let  Hellas  die;  a  day  will 
come  when  men  will  dig  up  her  sacred  bones,  frag- 
ments of  divine  marble,  and  will  once  more  pray 
and  weep  over  them.  They  will  seek  out  the  rot- 
ting pages  of  our  books  in  silent  tombs,  and  once 
more,  like  children,  spell  out  the  letters  of  the  old 
poems  of  Homer,  and  the  wisdom  of  Plato!  Hellas 
shall  be  born  again,  and  we  shall  be  born  with 
her!" 

"And  with  us,  our  curse!"  exclaimed  Anatolius. 
Once  more  will  begin  the  struggle  between  Olym- 
pu§  and  Golgotha!  Why?  Who  will  conquer? 


Conclusion.  451 

When  will  the  end  be?  Answer,  Sibyl,  if  thou 
canst!" 

Arsinoe  was  silent,  with  downcast  eyes.  Finally 
she  glanced  at  Ammianus,  and  directed  Anatolius' 
attention  to  him: 

"He  can  answer  you  better  than  I.  His  heart 
is  divided  between  Christ  and  Olympus,  as  yours 
and  mine  are.  Yet  he  has  not  lost  his  lucidity  of 
spirit.  See  how  quietly  and  wisely  he  decides  the 
quarrel/' 

Ammianus  Marcellinus,  laying  aside  Clement's 
work,  was  silently  listening  to  their  conversation. 

"It  is  true,"  said  the  Epicurean,  turning  to  him, 
"we  have  been  together  as  friends  for  more  than 
four  months,  and  I  do  not  know  yet  whether  you 
are  a  Christian  or  a  Hellene." 

"I  do  not  know  myself,"  said  Ammianus,  blush- 
ing slightly,  with  a  frank  smile. 

"What?  And  no  doubts  ever  disturb  you,  and 
you  do  not  suffer  from  the  contradictions  between 
the  Galilean  and  the  Hellenic  wisdom?" 

"No,  my  friend,  I  think  that  the  teachings  have 
many  things  in  common." 

"But  how  do  you  intend  to  write  your  history  of 
the  Eoman  Empire?  One  of  the  scales  must  out- 
weigh the  other.  Can  you  intend  to  leave  poster- 
ity in  such  strange  uncertainty  as  to  your  beliefs?" 

"They  need  not  know  them,"  replied  the  his- 
torian. "To  be  just  to  both  parties,  is  my  aim. 
I  loved  the  Emperor  Julian,  but  I  will  not  let  my 
love  for  him  weigh  down  one  pan  of  the  scales. 
Let  none  amongst  posterity  decide  which  I  was,  as 
I  myself  do  not  decide." 

Anatolius  had  already  had  an  opportunity  to 
note  Ammianus'  graceful  courtesy,  his  true  cour- 


452  Julian  the  Apostate. 

age  in  battle,  from  which  all  vanity  was  absent, 
his  quiet  confidence  in  friendship;  and  now  he  was 
involuntarily  charmed  by  another  trait  in  his  com- 
panion,— the  deep  lucidity  of  his  mind. 

"Yes,  you  are  a  born  historian,  Ammianus,"  ex- 
claimed Arsinoe,  "you  are  the  passionless  judge  of 
our  passionate  age.  You  will  reconcile  the  con- 
tending teachings!" 

"I  am  not  the  first!"  answered  Ammianus, 
slowly. 

He  was  so  inspired  by  the  subject  that  he  rose 
and  pointed  to  the  parchment  roll  of  the  great 
Christian  teacher's  work: 

"It  is  all  here  already,  and  much  more,  far  bet- 
ter expressed  than  I  could  express  it.  This  is  the 
'Stromata'  of  Clement  of  Alexandria.  He  shows 
that  all  the  greatness  of  Eome  and  all  the  wisdom 
of  Hellas  lead  up  to  the  teaching  of  Christ.  They 
are  forebodings,  presentiments,  hints.  They  are 
the  broad  steps,  leading  to  the  divine  temple,  like 
the  Propylse.  Plato  is  the  forerunner  of  Jesus 
of  Nazareth." 

These  last  words  about  the  teaching  of  Clement 
of  Alexandria,  spoken  with  such  sincere  simplicity 
rby  Ammianus,  stirred  Anatolius  to  the  depths  of 
his  soul.  He  seemed  to  remember  that  all  this  had 
once  happened  before,  down  to  the  smallest  detail, 
— the  island,  gilded  by  the  evening  sun,  the  strong, 
pleasant  smell  of  pitch  in  the  ship's  seams,  and  the 
unexpected  and  simple  words  of  Ammianus,  about 
Plato,  as  the  forerunner  of  Christ.  He  seemed 
to  see  a  wide  stairway  of  marble,  flooded  by  the 
sun,  with  many  steps  like  the  Athenian  Propylse, 
leading  straight  up  to  the  blue  sky. 


Conclusion.  453 

Meanwhile  the  trireme  was  slowly  rounding  the 
cape. 

The  cypress  grove  was  almost  hidden  behind 
the  cliffs.  Anatolius  cast  a  last  glance  at  the  youth 
standing  beside  the  maiden,  before  Pan's  statue. 
The  girl  was  pouring  out  a  simple  bowl  of  wood 
before  the  altar,  bringing  the  god  her  evening  gift, 
an  offering  of  goat's  milk,  mixed  with  honey.  The 
youth  was  about  to  play  his  flute.  The  trireme 
entered  the  open  sea.  The  group  disappeared  be- 
hind a  projection  of  the  cliff.  Only  a  pale  blue 
thread  of  sacrificial  smoke  rose  straight  up  above 
the  grove. 

Then  a  great  silence  came  over  the  sky,  the 
earth,  and  the  sea. 

The  slow  sounds  of  church  singing  were  heard. 
The  hermit-fathers  were  singing  their  evening 
prayer  in  chorus,  in  the  fore  part  of  the  ship. 

At  the  same  moment,  other  sounds  were  borne 
to  them  across  the  quiet  surface  of  the  sea.  The 
shepherd  boy  was  playing  an  evening  hymn  to 
Pan,  the  antique  god  of  joy  and  love  and  liberty. 
The  heart  of  Anatolius  was  stirred  with  wonder. 

" — Thy  will  be  done  on  earth,  as  it  is  in 
heaven,"  rose  the  voices  of  the  monks,  and  high  up 
in  the  sky  resounded  the  clear  sounds  of  the  shep- 
herd's flute,  mingling  with  the  words  of  the 
Lord's  Prayer. 

The  last  faint  glimmer  died  out  on  the  rocks  of 
the  happy  island.  It  once  more  seemed  a  dead 
cliff  in  the  midst  of  the  sea.  Both  hymns  sank  to 
silence. 

The  wind  rustled  through  the  rigging.  The 
waves  began  to  rise.  The  halcyon  uttered  its 
plaintive  note.  Shadows  hurried  forth  from  the 


454  Julian  the  Apostate. 

west,  and  the  sea  grew  dark.  The  clouds  gathered. 
From  the  horizon  came  the  first  mutterings  of 
thunder.  Night  and  storm  were  drawing  nigh. 

But  in  the  hearts  of  Anatolius,  Ammianus,  and 
Arsinoe  already  shone  the  great  gladness  of  the 
Renaissance,  like  the  light  of  a  sun  that  knows  no 
setting. 


The  End. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONA 


A    000023797     4 


